ON  OLD-WORLD 
HIGHWAYS 


By  the  Same  Author 

British  Highways  and  Byways  from  a 
Motor  Car 

THIRD  IMPRESSION 

WITH  FORTY-EIGHT  ILLUSTRATIONS  AND  TWO  MAPS 

Sixteen  Reproductions  in  Color,  and  Thirty-two  Duogravures 

320  Pages,  8vo,  Decorated  Cloth 

Price  (Boxed),  $3.00 

In  Unfamiliar  England  With  a  Motor  Car 

SECOND  IMPRESSION 

WITH  SIXTY-FOUR  ILLUSTRATIONS  AND  TWO  MAPS 

Sixteen  Reproductions  in  Color  and  Forty-eight  Duogravures 

400  Pages,  8vo,  Decorated  Cloth 

Price  (Boxed),  $3.00 

Three  Wonderlands  of  the  American  West 

SECOND  IMPRESSION 

WITH  FORTY-EIGHT  ILLUSTRATIONS  AND  TWO  MAPS 

Sixteen  Reproductions  in  Color  and  Thirty-two  Duogravures 

180  Pages,  Tall  8vo,  Decorated  Cloth 

Price  (Boxed)  $3.00  Net 


L.  C.  PAGE  &>  COMPANY 

BOSTON 


ON  OLD-WORLD 
HIGHWAYS 


A  Book  of  Motor  Rambles  in  France  and  Germany  and 

the  Record  of  a  Pilgrimage  from  Land's  End 

to  John  0 'Groats  in  Britain. 


BY  THOS.  D.  l^URPHY 

AUTHOR  OF  "THREE  WONDERLANDS  OF  THE  AMERICAN  WEST, 
"BRITISH  HIGHWAYS  AND  BYWAYS  FROM  A  MOTOR  CAR" 
AND  "IN  UNFAMILIAR  ENGLAND  WITH  A  MOTOR  CAR." 


WITH   SIXTEEN  REPRODUCTIONS  IN   COLORS  FROM   ORIGINAL 

PAINTINGS  BY  EMINENT  ARTISTS  AND   FORTY  DUO- 

GRAVURES   FROM   PHOTOGRAPHS.      ALSO   MAPS 

SHOWING  ROUTES  OF  AUTHOR. 


BOSTON 

L  C.  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 
MDCCCCXIV 


Copyright,  1914 

BY  L.  C.  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

(INCORPORATED) 

All  rights  reserved 
First  Impression,  January,  1914 


Preface 

I  know  that  of  making  books  of  travel  there  is 
no  limit — they  come  from  the  press  in  a  never-ending 
stream;  but  no  one  can  say  that  any  one  of  these  is 
superfluous  if  it  finds  appreciative  readers,  even 
though  they  be  but  few. 

My  chief  excuse  for  the  present  volume  is  the 
success  of  my  previous  books  of  motor  travel,  which 
have  run  through  several  fair-sized  editions.  I  have 
had  many  warmly  appreciative  letters  concerning 
these  from  native  Englishmen  and  the  books  were 
commended  by  the  Royal  Automobile  Club  Journal 
as  accurate  and  readable.  So  I  take  it  that  my  point 
of  view  from  the  wheel  of  a  motor  car  interests  some 
people,  and  I  shall  feel  justified  in  writing  such  books 
so  long  as  this  is  the  case. 

I  know  that  in  some  instances  I  have  had  to  deal 
with  hackneyed  subjects;  but  I  have  striven  for  a 
different  viewpoint  and  I  hope  I  have  contributed 
something  worth  while  in  describing  even  well- 
known  places.  On  the  other  hand,  I  know  that  I 
have  discovered  many  delightful  nooks  and  corners 
in  Britain  that  even  the  guide-books  have  overlooked. 


Besides,  I  am  sure  that  books  of  travel  have 
ample  justification  in  the  fact  that  travel  itself  is  one 
of  the  greatest  of  educators  and  civilizers.  It 
teaches  us  that  we  are  not  the  only  people — that 
wisdom  shall  not  die  with  us  alone.  It  shows  us 
that  in  some  things  other  people  may  do  better  than 
we  are  doing  and  it  may  enable  us  to  avoid  mis- 
takes that  others  make.  In  short,  it  widens  our 
horizon  and  tones  down  our  self-conceit — or  it 
should  do  all  of  this  if  we  keep  ears  and  eyes  open 
when  abroad. 

I  make  no  apology  for  the  fact  that  the  greater 
bulk  of  the  present  volume  deals  with  the  Mother- 
land, even  if  its  title  does  not  so  indicate.  Her 
romantic  charm  is  as  limitless  as  the  sea  that  encir- 
cles her.  Even  now,  after  our  long  journeyings  in 
every  corner  of  the  Island,  I  would  not  undertake 
to  say  to  what  extent  we  might  still  carry  our  ex- 
ploration in  historic  and  picturesque  Britain.  Should 
one  delight  in  ivy-covered  castles,  rambling 
old  manors,  ruined  abbeys,  romantic  coun- 
try-seats, haunted  houses,  great  cathedrals 
and  storied  churches  past  numbering,  I 
know  not  where  the  limit  may  be.  But 
I  do  know  that  the  little  party  upon  whose 
experiences  this  book  is  founded  is  still  far  from 
being  satisfied  after  nearly  twenty  thousand  miles 
of  motoring  in  the  Kingdom,  and  if  I  fail  to  make 
plain  why  we  still  think  of  the  highways  and  byways 


of  Britain  with  an  undiminished  longing,  the  fault 
is  mine  rather  than  that  of  my  subject. 

In  this  book,  as  in  my  previous  ones,  the  illustra- 
tions play  a  principal  part.  The  color  plates  are 
from  originals  by  distinguished  artists  and  the  photo- 
graphs have  been  carefully  selected  and  perfectly 
reproduced.  The  maps  will  also  be  of  assistance 
in  following  the  text.  I  hope  that  these  valuable 
adjuncts  may  make  amends  for  the  many  literary 
shortcomings  of  my  text. 

THOMAS  D.  MURPHY 
Red  Oak,  Iowa,  January  1,   1914. 


CONTENTS 


Page 
I     BOULOGNE    TO    ROUEN    1 

II     THE    CHATEAU   DISTRICT    29 

III     ORLEANS  TO  THE  GERMAN  BORDER   46 

IV  COLMAR   TO   OBERAMMERGAU    59 

V  BAVARIA   AND   THE   RHINE    77 

VI     THE    CAPTAIN'S    STORY    104 

VII     A   FLIGHT   THROUGH   THE    NORTH    125 

VIII     THE    MOTHERLAND    ONCE    MORE    145 

IX     OLD    WHITBY    157 

X     SCOTT    COUNTRY   AND   HEART    OP 

HIGHLANDS    178 

XI     IN   SUTHERLAND  AND  CAITHNESS    191 

XII     DOWN   THE   GREAT   GLEN    210 

XIII  ALONG   THE  WEST  COAST    224 

XIV  ODD    CORNERS    OF   LAKELAND    246 

XV     WE    DISCOVER    DENBIGH 262 

XVI     CONWAY    279 

XVII  THE   HARDY   COUNTRY   AND    BERRY 

POMEROY 298 

XVIII  POLPERRO    AND   THE    SOUTH   CORNISH 

COAST   320 

XIX  LAND'S   END    TO   LONDON    336 

XX  THE    ENGLISH   AND    THEIR    INSTITUTIONS 355 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

COLOR  PLATES 

Page 

THE  MOUNTAIN   MEADOWS,    BAVARIAN   TYROL 

Frontispiece 

SUNSET    IN    TOURAINE     1 

WOODS    IN    BRITTANY     ' 26 

PIER    LANE,    WHITBY    164 

HARVEST   TIME,    STRATHTAY    180 

A  HIGHLAND  LOCH    188 

ACKERGILL   HARBOUR,    CAITHNESS    204 

GLEN    APFRICK,    NEAR    INVERNESS     208 

THE    GREAT    GLEN,    SUNSET    210 

"THE    COTTER'S    SATURDAY    NIGHT"     236 

THE    FALLEN    GIANT — A   HIGHLAND    STUDY    240 

CONWAY    CASTLE,    NORTH    WALES     280 

"THE    NEW    ARRIVAL"     282 

KYNANCE   COVE,    CORNWALL    334 

SUNSET   NEAR   LAND'S   END,    CORNWALL    336 

"A   DISTANT   VIEW    OF    THE    TOWERS   OF 

WINDSOR"    355 

DUOGRAVURES 

ST.    LO    FROM   THE   RIVER    18 

A   STREET   IN   ST.   MALO    24 

CHENONCEAUX— THE   ORIENTAL   FRONT    32 

AMBOISE    FROM   ACROSS   THE    LOIRE    34 

GRAND    STAIRWAY    OF    FRANCIS    I.    AT    BLOIS 36 

PORT    DU    CROUX— A    MEDIEVAL   WATCH-TOWER 

AT   NEVERS    46 

CASTLE    AT    FUSSEN    .  .66 


OBERAMMERGAU    70 

ULM   AND   THE    CATHEDRAL    82 

GOETHE'S    HOUSE— FRANKFORT    86 

BINGEN    ON    THE    RHINE     , 88 

CASTLE    RHEINSTEIN    » 90 

EHRENFELS    ON   THE    RHINE    92 

RUINS  OF  CASTLE  RHEINFELS    94 

LUXEMBURG — GENERAL    VIEW    102 

ST.   WULFRAM'S   CHURCH,   GRANTHAM    150 

OLD    PEEL    TOWER    AT    DARNICK    NEAR 

ABBOTSFORD 178 

HOTEL,    JOHN    O'GROATS    200 

URQUHART  CASTLE,  LOCH  NESS  214 

THE   MACDONALD   MONUMENT,    GLENCOE 220 

"McCAIG'S  FOLLY,"   OBAN    224 

GLENLUCE    ABBEY    242 

SWEETHEART    ABBEY     244 

WORDSWORTH'S    BIRTHPLACE,    COCKERMOUTH    250 

CALDER  ABBEY,   CUMBERLAND   252 

KENDAL    CASTLE     G.258 

KENDAL   PARISH   CHURCH    260 

DENBIGH    CASTLE — THE    ENTRANCE    AND    KEEP 266 

ST.    HILARY'S    CHURCH,    DENBIGH    272 

GATE   TOWERS  RHUDDLAN  CASTLE,  NORTH  WALES. 276 
PLAS  MAWR,   CONWAY,   HOME  OF  ROYAL  CAMBRIAN 

ACADEMY     284 

INNER   COURT,   PLAS   MAWR,   CONWAY    286 

CONWAY   CASTLE — THE    OUTER   WALL    . 292 

BERRY   POMEROY    CASTLE,    ENTRANCE    TOWERS 312 

BERRY  POMEROY — WALL  OF   INNER  COURT    316 

A    STREET    IN   EAST   LOOE— CORNWALL    322 

POLPERRO,     CORNWALL— LOOKING     TOWARD 

THE    SEA    324 

LANSALLOS    CHURCH,    POLPERRO     326 

A  STREET   IN   FOWEY,   CORNWALL    330 

PROBUS   CHURCH  TOWER,   CORNWALL    .  ...332 


MAPS 


FRANCE    AND    GERMANY     380 

ENGLAND    AND    SCOTLAND     .  ..388 


Through  Summer  France 

and 
The  Fatherland 


On  Old-World  Highways 
I 

BOULOGNE    TO    ROUEN 

Our  three  summer  pilgrimages  in  Britain  have 
left  few  unexplored  corners  in  the  tight  little  island 
— we  are  thinking  of  new  worlds  to  conquer. 
Beyond  the  narrow  channel  the  green  hills  of 
France  offer  the  nearest  and  most  attractive  field. 
Certainly  it  is  the  most  accessible  of  foreign  coun- 
tries for  the  motorist  in  England  and  every  year 
increasing  numbers  of  English-speaking  tourists 
are  seen  in  the  neighboring  republic.  The  service 
of  the  Royal  Automobile  Club,  with  its  usual 
enterprise  and  thoroughness,  leaves  little  to  be  de- 
sired in  arranging  the  details  of  a  trip  and  sup- 
plies complete  information  as  to  route.  An  asso- 
ciate membership  was  accorded  me  on  behalf  of 
the  Automobile  Club  of  America,  whose  card  I 
presented  and  which  serves  an  American  many  use- 
ful ends  in  European  motordom.  Mr.  Maroney, 
the  genial  touring  secretary,  at  once  interested  him- 
self in  our  proposed  tour.  He  undertook  to  out- 

1 


THROUGH   SUMMER  FRANCE 

line  a  route,  to  arrange  for  transportation  of  our 
car  across  the  Channel,  to  provide  for  duties  and 
licenses  and,  lastly,  to  secure  a  courier-guide  familiar 
with  the  countries  we  proposed  to  invade  and  pro- 
ficient in  the  French  and  German  languages.  The 
necessary  guide-books  and  road-maps  are  carried  in 
stock  by  the  club  and  the  only  charge  made  is  for 
these.  Our  proposed  route  was  traced  on  the  map, 
a  typewritten  list  of  towns  and  distances  was  made 
and  a  day  or  two  later  I  was  advised  that  a  guide 
had  been  engaged.  Mr  Maroney  expressed  regret 
that  the  young  men  who  serve  the  club  regularly 
in  this  capacity  were  already  employed,  but  he  had 
investigated  the  man  secured  for  us  and  found  him 
competent  and  reliable. 

"Still,"  said  Mr.  Maroney  with  characteristic 
British  caution,  "we  would  feel  better  satisfied  with 
one  of  our  own  men  on  the  job;  but  it  is  the  best 
we  can  do  for  you  under  the  circumstances." 

We  learned  that  our  guide  was  a  young  English- 
man of  good  family,  at  present  in  somewhat 
straitened  circumstances,  which  made  him  willing 
to  accept  any  position  for  which  his  talents  might 
fit  him.  He  had  previously  piloted  motor  parties 
through  France  and  Italy  and  spoke  four  languages 
with  perfect  fluency.  He  had  done  a  lot  of  knock- 
ing about,  having  recently  been  in  a  shipwreck  off 


BOULOGNE   TO  ROUEN 

the  coast  of  South  America  and  having  held  a  cap- 
tain's commission  in  the  South  African  War.  We 
therefore  called  him  **the  Captain,"  and  I  may  as 
well  adopt  that  designation  in  referring  to  him  in 
these  pages,  since  his  real  name  would  interest  no 
one.  He  was  able  to  drive  the  car  and  declared 
willingness  to  do  a  chauffeur's  part  in  caring  for 
it.  The  only  doubt  expressed  by  Mr.  Maroney 
was  that  the  Captain  might  "forget  his  place" — 
that  of  a  servant — and  before  long  consider  himself 
a  member  of  our  party,  and  with  characteristic 
frankness  the  touring  secretary  cautioned  our  guide 
in  my  presence  against  any  such  presumption. 

It  is  a  fine  May  afternoon  when  we  drive  from 
London  to  Folkestone  to  be  on  hand  in  time  to 
attend  to  the  formalities  for  crossing  the  Channel  on 
the  following  day.  Police  traps,  we  are  warned, 
abound  along  the  road  and  we  proceed  quite  soberly, 
taking  some  four  hours  for  the  seventy-five  miles 
including  the  slow  work  of  getting  out  of  London. 
The  Royal  Pavilion  Hotel  on  low  ground  near  the 
docks  is  strictly  first-class  and  its  rates  prove  more 
moderate  than  we  found  at  its  competitors  on  the 
cliff. 

Our  car  is  left  at  the  dock,  arrangements  for  its 
transport  having  been  made  beforehand  by  the 
Royal  Automobile  Club;  but  we  saunter  down  in 

3 


THROUGH  SUMMER  FRANCE 

the  morning  to  see  it  loaded.  We  need  not  worry 
about  this,  for  it  goes  "at  the  company's  risk,"  a 
provision  which  costs  us  ten  shillings  extra.  It  is 
pushed  upon  a  large  platform  and  a  steam  crane 
soon  swings  it  high  in  the  air  preparatory  to  deposit- 
ing it  on  the  steamer  deck. 

"She's  an  airship  now,"  said  an  old  salt  as  the 
car  reached  its  highest  point.  "We  did  fetch  over 
a  sure-enough  airship  last  week — belonged  to  that 
fellow  Paulhan  and  he's  a  decentish  chap,  too; 
you'd  never  think  he  was  a  Frenchman!" — which 
would  seem  to  indicate  that  the  entente  cordiale  had 
not  entirely  cleared  away  prejudice  from  the 
mind  of  our  sailor-friend. 

Our  crossing  was  as  comfortable  as  any  Channel 
crossing  could  be — which  in  our  case  is  not  saying 
much,  for  that  green,  rushing  streak  of  salt  water, 
the  English  Channel,  always  gives  us  a  squeamish 
feeling,  no  matter  how  "smooth"  it  may  be.  We 
are  only  too  glad  to  get  on  terra  firma  in  Boulogne 
and  to  see  our  car  almost  immediately  swung  to 
the  dock. 

I  had  read  in  a  recently  published  book  by  a 
motor  tourist  of  the  dreadful  ordeal  he  underwent 
in  securing  his  license  to  drive;  a  stern  official  sat 
beside  him  and  put  him  through  all  his  paces  to 
ascertain  if  he  was  competent  to  pilot  a  car  in 

4 


BOULOGNE   TO  ROUEN 

France.  I  was  expecting  to  be  compelled  to  give 
a  similar  exhibit,  when  the  Captain  came  out  of 
the  station  with  driving  licenses  for  both  himself  and 
me  and  announced  that  we  would  be  ready  to 
proceed  as  soon  as  he  attached  a  pair  of  very  indis- 
tinct number  plates. 

"But  the  examination  'pour  competence,'  '  I 
said. 

"O,"  he  replied,  I  just  explained  to  his  nobs 
that  we  were  in  a  great  hurry  and  couldn't  wait  for 
an  examination — and  a  five-franc  piece  did  the 
rest."  A  piece  of  diplomacy  which  no  doubt  left 
the  honest  official  feeling  happier  than  if  I  had  given 
him  a  joy-ride  over  the  cobbles  of  Boulogne. 

Filling  our  tank  with  "essence,"  which  we  learn, 
after  translating  some  jargon  concerning  "litres"  and 
"francs,"  will  cost  about  thirty-five  cents  per  gallon 
— we  strike  out  on  the  road  to  Montreuil.  It  proves 
a  typical  French  highway  and  our  first  impressions 
are  confirmed  later  on.  The  road  is  broad,  with 
perfect  contour  and  easy  grades,  running  straight 
away  for  miles — or  should  I  say  kilometers? — and 
showing  every  evidence  of  engineering  skill  and  care- 
ful construction.  But  it  is  old-fashioned  macadam 
without  any  binding  material.  The  motor  car  has 
torn  up  the  surface  and  scattered  it  in  loose  dust 
which  rises  in  clouds  from  our  wheels  or  has  been 

5 


THROUGH  SUMMER  FRANCE 

swept  away  by  the  wind,  leaving  the  roadbed  bare 
but  rough  and  jagged — a  perfect  grindstone  on 
rubber  tires.  The  same  description  applies  to  nearly 
all  the  roads  we  traversed  in  France,  and  no  doubt 
the  vast  preponderance  of  them  are  still  in  the  same 
state  or  worse.  A  movement  for  re-surfacing  the 
main  highways  is  now  in  progress  and  in  a  few 
years  France  will  again  be  at  the  front,  though  at 
this  time  she  is  far  behind  England  in  the  matter 
of  modem  automobile  roads.  The  long  straight 
stretches  and  the  absence  of  police  traps  in  the 
country  make  fast  time  possible — if  one  is  willing 
to  pay  the  tire  bill.  Thirty  miles  an  hour  is  an  easy 
jog  and  though  we  left  Boulogne  after  three,  we  find 
we  have  covered  one  hundred  and  ten  miles  at  night- 
fall, including  a  stop  for  luncheon.  At  Montreuil 
we  strike  the  first  and  only  serious  grade,  a  long, 
steep  hill  up  which  winds  the  cobble-paved  main 
street  of  the  town — our  first  experience  with  the 
cobble  pavement  of  the  provincial  towns,  of  which 
more  anon. 

A  few  miles  beyond  Montreuil  the  Captain  steers 
us  into  a  narrow  byroad  which  leads  into  the  quaint 
little  fisher  town  of  Berck-sur-Mer  and,  indeed,  the 
much-abused  "quaint"  is  not  misapplied  here.  The 
old  buildings  straggle  along  the  single  street,  quite 
devoid  of  any  touch  of  the  picturesque  and  thronged 

6 


BOULOGNE   TO  ROUEN 

by  people  of  all  degrees.  We  see  many  queer 
four-wheeled  vehicles — not  much  larger  than  toy 
wagons — drawn  by  ponies  and  donkeys,  the  drivers 
lying  at  full  length  on  their  backs,  staring  at  the 
sky  or  asleep,  their  motive  power  wandering  along 
at  its  own  sweet  will.  It  is  indeed  ridiculous  to 
see  full-grown  men  riding  in  such  a  primitive  fashion, 
but  the  sight  is  not  unusual.  We  meet  a  troop  of 
prawn  fishers  coming  in  from  the  sea — as  miserable 
specimens  of  humanity  as  we  ever  beheld — ragged, 
bedraggled,  bare-headed  and  bare-footed  creatures; 
many  old  women  among  them,  prancing  along  like 
animated  rag-bags. 

Swinging  back  into  the  main  highway,  we  soon 
reach  Abbeville,  whose  roughly  paved  streets  wind 
between  bare,  unattractive  buildings.  In  places 
malodorous  streams  run  along  the  streets — practically 
open  sewers,  if  the  smell  is  any  indication.  Abbe- 
ville affords  an  example  of  the  terrible  cobblestone 
pavement  that  we  found  in  nearly  all  French  cities 
of  the  second  class.  The  round,  uneven  stones — in 
the  States  we  call  them  "niggerheads" — have  prob- 
ably lain  undisturbed  for  centuries.  Besides  the 
natural  roughness  of  such  a  pavement,  there  are 
numerous  chuck-holes.  No  matter  how  slowly  we 
drive,  we  bounce  and  jump  over  these  stones,  which 
strike  the  tires  with  sledge-hammer  force,  send- 

7 


THROUGH  SUMMER  FRANCE 

ing  a  series  of  shivers  throughout  the  car.  It  is  no 
wonder  that  such  pavements  and  the  grindstone 
roads  often  limit  the  life  of  tires  to  a  few  hun- 
dred miles. 

•    •         *  i  :  IiJsIa 

Out  of  Abbeville  we  "hit  up"  pretty  strongly, 
for  it  is  nearly  dark  and  we  plan  to  reach  Rouen 
for  the  night.  The  straight  fine  road  offers  tempta- 
tion to  speed,  under  the  circumstances,  and  our 
odometer  does  not  vary  much  from  forty  miles — 
when  we  are  suddenly  treated  to  a  surprise  that 
makes  us  more  cautious  about  speeding  on  French 
roads  at  dusk.  In  a  little  hollow  we  strike  a  ditch 
six  inches  deep  by  two  or  three  feet  in  width — a  "can- 
ivau,"  as  they  designate  it  in  France — with  a  terri- 
fic jolt  which  almost  threatens  the  car  with  destruc- 
tion. The  frame  strikes  the  axles  with  fearful  force; 
it  seems  impossible  that  nothing  should  be  broken. 
A  careful  search  fails  to  reveal  any  apparent  dam- 
age, though  a  fractured  axle-rod  a  short  time  later 
is  undoubtedly  a  result  of  the  violent  blow.  It 
seems  strange  that  an  important  main  road  should 
have  such  a  dangerous  defect,  though  we  find  many 
similar  cases  later;  but  as  we  travel  no  more  after 
dusk,  and  generally  at  much  more  moderate  speed, 
we  have  no  further  mishap  of  the  kind.  We  light 
our  lamps  and  proceed  at  a  more  sober  pace  to 
Neufchatel,  where  we  decide  to  stop  for  the  night 

8 


BOULOGNE   TO  ROUEN 

at  the  rather  unattractive-looking  Lion  d'Or.  We 
have  reason  to  congratulate  ourselves,  for  the  way- 
side inn  is  really  preferable  to  the  Angleterre  at 
Rouen  and  the  rates  are  scarcely  half  so  much.  It 
is  a  rambling  old  house,  partly  surrounding  a  stable- 
yard  court  where  the  motor  is  stored  for  the  night. 
The  regular  meal  time  is  past,  but  a  plain  supper 
is  prepared  for  us.  We  are  tired  enough  not  to  be 
too  critical  of  our  accommodations  and  the  rooms 
and  beds  are  clean  and  fairly  comfortable.  We 
have  breakfast  at  a  long  table  where  the  guests  all 
sit  together  and  the  fare,  while  plain,  is  good. 

There  is  nothing  of  interest  in  Neufchatel,  though 
its  cheese  has  given  it  a  world-wide  fame.  It  is 
a  market  town  of  four  or  five  thousand  people,  de- 
pending largely  on  the  prosperous  country  surround- 
ing it. 

We  are  early  away  for  Rouen  and  in  course  of 
an  hour  we  come  in  sight  of  the  cathedral  spire, 
the  highest  in  all  France,  rising  nearly  five  hundred 
feet  and  overtopping  Salisbury,  the  loftiest  in  Eng- 
land, by  almost  one  hundred  feet.  At  the  Cap- 
tain's recommendation  we  seek  the  Hotel  Angleterre 
— which  means  the  Hotel  England — a  bid,  no  doubt, 
for  the  patronage  of  the  numerous  English-speak- 
ing tourists  who  visit  the  city.  There  is  a  deal  of 
dickering  before  we  get  settled,  for  the  rates  are 

9 


THROUGH  SUMMER  FRANCE 

unreasonably  high;  but  after  considerable  parley  a 
bargain  is  made.  We  enter  the  diminutive  "lift," 
which  holds  two  persons  by  a  little  crowding,  but 
after  the  first  trip  we  use  the  stairway  to  save  time. 
One  could  not  "do"  Rouen  in  the  guide-book 
sense  in  less  than  a  week — but  such  is  not  the  object 
of  our  present  tour.  If  one  brings  a  motor  to  France 
he  can  hardly  afford  to  let  it  stand  idle  to  spend 
several  days  in  any  city.  We  shall  see  what  we 
can  of  Rouen  in  a  day  and  take  the  road  again 
in  the  morning. 

Our  first  thought  is  of  Jeanne  d'Arc  and  her 
martyrdom  in  the  old  city  and  our  second  of  the 
cathedral,  in  some  respects  one  of  the  most  remark- 
able in  Europe.  It  is  but  a  stone's  throw  from  our 
hotel  and  is  consequently  our  first  attraction.  The 
facade  is  imposing  despite  its  incongruous  architec- 
tural details  and  has  a  world  of  intricate  carving  and 
sculpture,  partly  concealed  by  scaffolding,  for  the 
church  is  being  restored.  The  towers  flanking  the 
facade  are  unfinished,  both  lacking  the  tall  Gothic 
spire  originally  planned  and,  indeed,  necessary  to 
give  a  harmonious  effect  to  the  whole.  A  spire  of 
open  iron-work  nearly  five  hundred  feet  in  height 
replaces  the  original  wooden  structure  burned  by 
lightning  in  1822  and  is  severely  criticised  as  being 

10 


BOULOGNE   TO  ROUEN 

out  of  keeping  with  the  elaborate  stone  building 
which  it  surmounts. 

Once  inside  we  are  overwhelmed  by  a  sense  of 
vastness — the  great  church  is  nearly  five  hundred 
feet  in  length,  while  the  transept  is  a  third  as  wide. 
The  arches  of  the  nave  seem  almost  lost  in  the  dim, 
softly  toned  light  that  streams  in  from  the  richly 
colored  windows,  some  of  which  date  from  the 
twelfth  century.  If  the  exterior  is  incongruous,  the 
interior  is  indeed  a  symphony  in  stone,  despite  a 
few  jarring  notes  in  the  decorations  of  some  of  the 
private  chapels.  There  are  many  beautiful  monu- 
ments, mainly  to  French  church  dignitaries  whom 
we  never  heard  of  and  care  little  about,  but  the 
battered  gigantic  limestone  effigy  discovered  in  1 838 
is  full  of  fascinating  interest,  for  it  represents  Richard 
the  Lion-Hearted^ — the  Richard  of  "Ivanhoe" — 
whose  heart,  enclosed  in  a  triple  casket  of  lead, 
wood  and  silver,  is  buried  beneath.  The  figure  is 
nearly  seven  feet  in  length  and  we  wonder  if  this 
is  a  true  representation  of  the  stature  of  our  child- 
hood's hero,  who, 

"starred  with  idle  glory,  came 
Bearing  from  leaguered  Ascalon 

The  barren  splendour  of  his  fame, 
And,  vanquished  by  an  unknown  bow, 
Lies  vainly  great  at  Fontevraud." 
11 


THROUGH  SUMMER  FRANCE 

For  Richard's  body  was  interred  at  Fontevraud, 
near  Orleans,  with  other  members  of  English  royalty. 
Henry  II.  is  also  buried  in  Rouen  Cathedral — all 
indicative  that  there  was  a  day  when  English  kings 
regarded  Normandy  as  their  home! 

Another  memorial  which  interests  us  is  dedicated 
to  LaSalle,  the  great  explorer,  who  was  born  in 
Rouen.  He  was  buried,  as  every  schoolboy  knows, 
in  the  great  river  which  he  discovered,  but  his 
memory  is  cherished  by  his  native  city  as  the  man 
who  gave  the  empire  of  Louisiana  to  France. 

Rouen  has  at  least  two  other  churches  of  first 
magnitude — St.  Ouen  and  St.  Maclou — but  we 
shall  have  to  content  ourselves  with  a  cursory  glance 
at  their  magnificence.  The  former  is  declared  to 
be  "one  of  the  most  beautiful  Gothic  churches  in 
existence,  surpassing  the  cathedral  both  in  extent 
and  excellence  of  style."  Such  is  the  pronounce- 
ment of  that  final  authority  on  such  matters,  Herr 
Baedeker! 

But,  after  all,  is  not  Rouen  best  known  to  the 
world  because  of  its  connection  with  the  strange 
figure  of  Jeanne  d'Arc?  Indeed,  her  career  savors 
of  myth  and  legend — not  the  sober  fact  of  history 
— and  it  is  hard  to  conceive  of  the  scene  that  took 
place  around  the  fatal  spot  in  the  Vieux-Marche, 
now  marked  with  a  large  stone  bearing  the  inscrip- 

12 


BOULOGNE    TO  ROUEN 

tion,  "Jeanne  d'Arc,  30  Mar.  1431."  Here  a 
tender  young  woman  whose  only  crime  was  an  im- 
plicit belief  that  she  was  divinely  inspired,  was 
burned  at  the  stake  by  order  of  a  reverend  bishop 
who,  surrounded  by  his  satellites,  approvingly 
looked  on  the  dreadful  scene.  And  these  men  were 
not  painted  savages,  but  high  dignitaries  of  Christen- 
dom. Much  of  old  Rouen  stands  to-day  as  it  stood 
then,  but  what  a  vast  change  has  been  wrought  in 
humankind!  Only  a  single  ruinous  tower  remains 
of  the  castle  where  the  Maid  was  confined.  While 
imprisoned  here  she  was  intimidated  by  being  shown 
the  instruments  of  torture;  but  she  withstood  the 
callous  brutality  of  her  persecutors  with  fortitude  and 
heroism  that  baffled  them,  though  it  only  enraged 
them  the  more. 

We  acknowledge  the  hopelessness  of  getting  any 
adequate  idea  of  a  city  of  such  antiquity  and  im- 
portance in  a  day  and  the  Captain  says  we  may 
as  well  quit  trying.  He  suggests  that  we  take  the 
tram  for  Bonsecours,  situated  on  the  steep  hill 
towering  high  over  the  town  from  the  right  bank 
of  the  river.  Here  is  a  modern  Catholic  cemetery 
with  many  handsome  tombs  and  monuments  and,  in 
the  center,  a  recently  erected  memorial  to  Joan 
of  Arc.  This  consists  of  three  little  temples  in  the 
Renaissance  style,  the  central  chapel  enclosing  a 

13 


THROUGH  SUMMER  FRANCE 

marble  statue  of  the  Maid.  There  is  a  modern  church 
near  by  whose  interior — a  solid  mass  of  bright 
green,  red  and  gold — is  the  most  gorgeous  we  have 
seen.  The  specialty  of  this  church  is  "votive  tablets" 
— the  walls  are  covered  with  little  marble  placards 
telling  what  some  particular  saint  has  done  for  the 
donor  in  response  to  a  vow.  A  round  charge,  the 
Captain  says,  is  made  for  each  tablet,  so  that  the 
income  of  Bonsecours  Church  must  be  a  good  one. 
But  one  will  not  visit  Bonsecours  to  see  the 
church  or  the  memorial,  though  both  are  interesting 
in  their  way,  but  for  the  unmatched  view  of  the 
city  and  the  Seine  Valley,  which  good  authorities 
pronounce  one  of  the  finest  panoramas  in  Europe. 
From  the  memorial  the  whole  city  lies  spread  out 
like  a  map — so  far  beneath  that  the  five-hundred- 
foot  spire  of  Notre  Dame  is  below  the  level  of  our 
vision.  The  city,  with  its  splendid  spires  rising 
amidst  the  wilderness  of  streets  and  house-roofs, 
fills  the  valley  near  at  hand  and  the  broad,  shining 
folds  of  the  Seine,  with  its  old  bridges  and  wooded 
shores,  lends  a  glorious  variety  to  the  scene.  The 
view  up  and  down  the  river  is  quite  unobstructed, 
covering  a  beautiful  and  prosperous  valley  bounded 
en  either  side  by  the  verdant  hills  of  Normandy. 
This  view  alone  well  repays  a  visit  to  Bonsecours, 
whether  one's  stay  in  Rouen  be  short  or  long. 

14 


BOULOGNE    TO    ROUEN 

In  leaving  Rouen  we  cross  the  Seine  and  follow 
the  fine  straight  road  which  runs  through  Pont 
Audemer  to  Honfleur  on  the  coast.  This  was  not 
our  prearranged  route,  but  the  Captain  apparently 
gravitates  toward  the  sea  whenever  possible,  and 
he  is  responsible  for  the  diversion.  From  Honfleur 
we  follow  the  narrow  road  along  the  coast — its 
sharp  turns,  devious  windings,  short  steep  hills  and 
the  hedgerows  which  border  it  in  places  recalling 
the  byways  of  Devon  and  Cornwall.  We  again 
come  out  on  the  shore  at  Trouville-sur-Mer,  a  water- 
ing place  with  an  array  of  imposing  hotels.  It  is 
not  yet  the  "season"  and  many  of  the  hotels  are 
closed,  but  the  Belvue,  one  of  the  largest,  is  doing 
business  and  we  have  an  elaborate  luncheon  here 
which  costs  more  than  we  like  to  pay. 

Out  of  Trouville  our  road  still  pursues  the  coast, 
running  through  a  series  of  resorts  and  fishing  vil- 
lages until  it  swings  inland  for  Caen — a  quaint,  ir- 
regular old  place  which,  next  to  Rouen,  declares 
Baedeker,  is  the  most  interesting  city  in  Normandy. 
We  are  sorry  that  many  of  its  show-places  are  closed 
to  us,  for  it  is  Sunday  and  the  churches  are  not 
open  to  tourist  inspection.  In  St.  Stephen's  we 
might  have  seen  the  tomb  of  William  the  Conqueror, 
though  his  remains  no  longer  rest  beneath  it,  having 
been  disinterred  and  scattered  by  the  Huguenots  in 
15 


THROUGH   SUMMER  FRANCE 

1562.  Caen  has  two  other  great  churches — St. 
Peter's  and  Trinity,  which  we  can  view  only  from 
the  outside. 

It  is  Pentecost  Sunday  and  the  streets  are 
thronged  with  young  girls  in  white  who  have  taken 
part  in  confirmation  services;  we  have  seen  others 
at  many  places  during  the  day.  It  is  about  the 
only  thing  to  remind  us  that  it  is  Sunday,  for  the 
shops  are  open,  work  is  going  on  in  the  fields,  and 
road-making  is  in  progress;  we  note  little  suspension 
of  week-day  activities.  The  peasants  whom  we 
see  by  the  roadside  and  in  the  little  villages  are 
generally  very  dirty  but  seem  happy  and  content. 
The  farm  houses  are  usually  unattractive,  often  with 
filthy  surroundings — muck-heaps  in  front  of  the 
doors — not  unlike  what  we  saw  in  some  parts  of 
Ireland. 

The  road  from  Caen  to  Bayeux  runs  as  straight  as 
an  arrow's  flight,  broad,  level  and  bordered — as 
most  main  roads  are  in  France — by  rows  of  stately 
trees.  We  give  the  motor  full  rein  and  the  green 
sunny  fields  flit  joyously  past  us.  What  a  relief  to 
"open  her  up"  without  thought  of  a  policeman  be- 
hind every  bush!  Is  it  any  wonder  that  the  oft- 
trapped  Englishman  considers  France  a  motorist's 
paradise? 

The  spires  of  Bayeux  Cathedral  soon  rise  before  us 
16 


BOULOGNE   TO  ROUEN 

and  we  must  content  ourselves  with  the  exterior  of 
this  magnificent  church.  Not  so  with  the  museum 
which  contains  the  Bayeux  Tapestry,  for  the  lady 
member  of  our  party  is  determined  to  see  this  famous 
piece  of  needlework,  willy  nilly.  The  custodian  is 
finally  located  and  we  are  admitted  to  view  the 
relic.  It  is  a  strip  of  linen  cloth  eighteen  inches 
wide  and  two  hundred  thirty  feet  long,  embroidered 
in  colored  thread  with  scenes  representing  the  Con- 
quest of  England  by  William  of  Normandy.  It 
is  claimed  that  the  work  was  done  by  Queen  Ma- 
tilda and  her  maidens,  though  this  is  disputed  by 
some  authorities;  but  its  importance  as  a  contem- 
porary representation  of  historic  events  of  the  time 
of  William  I.  far  outweighs  its  artistic  significance. 

The  main  road  from  Bayeux  to  St.  Lo  is  one 
of  the  most  glorious  highways  in  France.  It  runs 
through  an  almost  unbroken  forest  of  giant  trees 
for  a  good  part  of  the  distance — a  little  more  than 
twenty  miles — and  the  sunset  sky  gleaming  through 
the  stately  trunks  relieves  the  otherwise  somber 
effect. 

By  happy  accident  we  reach  St.  Lo  at  night- 
fall and  turn  into  the  courtyard  of  the  Hotel  de 
Univers,  a  comfortable-looking  old  house  invitingly 
close  to  the  roadside.  I  say  by  happy  accident, 
for  we  never  planned  to  stop  at  St.  Lo  and  but 

17 


THROUGH  SUMMER  PRANCE 

for  chance  might  have  remained  in  ignorance  of 
one  of  the  most  charming  little  cathedral  towns  in 
France.  Indeed,  we  feel  that  St.  Lo  is  ours  by 
right  of  discovery,  for  we  find  but  scant  mention 
of  it  in  the  guide-books.  After  an  excellent  though 
unpretentious  dinner,  we  sally  forth  from  our  inn 
to  view  our  surroundings  in  the  deepening  twilight. 
The  town  is  situated  on  the  margin  of  a  still  little 
river  which  wonderfully  reflects  the  ancient  vine- 
covered  houses  that  climb  the  sharply  sloping  hill- 
side. The  huge  bulk  of  the  cathedral  looms  mys- 
teriously over  the  town  and  its  soaring  twin  spires 
are  sharply  outlined  against  the  dim  moonlit  sky. 
The  towers  are  not  exact  duplicates,  as  they  ap- 
pear from  a  distance,  but  both  exhibit  the  same 
general  characteristics  of  Gothic  style.  The  whole 
scene  is  one  of  enchanting  beauty;  the  dull  glow  of 
the  river,  the  houses  massed  on  the  hillside,  with 
lighted  windows  gleaming  here  and  there  and 
and  crowning  all  the  vast  sentinellike  form  of  the 
cathedral — a  scene  that  would  lose  half  its  charm 
if  viewed  by  the  flaunting  light  of  day.  And  we 
secretly  resolve  that  we  shall  have  no  such  disen- 
chantment; we  shall  steal  quietly  out  of  St.  Lo  in 
the  early  morning  with  never  a  backward  glance. 
We  do  not,  therefore,  see  the  interior  of  the  church, 
which  has  several  features  of  peculiar  interest,  and 

18 


BOULOGNE   TO  ROUEN 

we  may  be  pardoned  for  adopting  the  description 
of  an  English  writer: 

"Notre  Dame  de  Saint-Lo  has  a  very  unusual 
and  original  plan,  widening  towards  the  east  and 
adding  another  aisle  to  the  north  and  south  ambula- 
tories. On  the  north  side  is  its  chief  curiosity,  an 
out-door  pulpit,  built  at  the  end  of  the  fifteenth 
century  and  probably  used  by  Huguenot  preachers, 
to  whom  a  sermon  was  a  sermon,  whether  preached 
under  a  vaulted  roof  or  the  open  sky.  What  strikes 
one  most  about  the  interior  of  the  church  is  its  want 
of  light.  The  nave  is  absolutely  unlighted,  having 
neither  tri-forium  nor  clerestory,  and  the  aisles  have 
only  one  tier  of  large  windows,  whose  glass  is  old 
and  very  fine,  though  in  most  cases  pieced  together; 
the  nave  piers  are  massive,  with  a  cluster  of  three 
shafts;  those  of  the  choir  are  quite  simple,  and 
have  one  noticeable  feature,  the  absence  of  capitals, 
the  vault  mouldings  dying  away  into  the  pier." 

We  shall  remember  our  hotel  as  the  best  type 
of  the  small-town  French  inn — a  simple,  old-fash- 
ioned house  where  we  had  attentive  service  and  a 
studied  effort  to  please  was  made  by  all  connected 
with  the  place.  And  not  the  least  of  its  merits 
are  its  moderate  charges — less  than  half  we  paid 
at  many  of  the  larger  places,  often  for  less  satisfactory 
accommodations. 

19 


THROUGH  SUMMER  FRANCE 

Twenty  miles  westward  from  St.  Lo  we  come 
to  Coutances,  which  boasts  of  a  cathedral  church 
of  the  first  magnitude  and  one  of  the  oldest  in  Nor- 
mandy, dating  almost  in  entirety  from  the  thirteenth 
century.  Leaving  the  main  highway  a  little  beyond 
Coutances,  we  follow  the  narrow  byroad  running 
about  a  mile  from  the  coast  through  Granville,  a 
well-known  seaside  resort,  to  Avranches.  This 
road  is  scarcely  more  than  a  winding  lane  with 
many  sharp  little  hills,  hedge-bordered  in  places  and 
often  overarched  by  trees — a  little  like  the  roads  of 
Southern  England,  a  type  not  very  common  in 
France.  South  of  Granville  it  closely  follows  the 
shore  for  a  few  miles,  then  swings  inland  for  a  mile 
or  two,  affording  only  occasional  glimpses  of  the  sea. 
Avranches,  from  its  commanding  site  on  a  lofty  hill, 
soon  breaks  into  view,  and  the  Captain  suggests 
luncheon  at  the  Grand  Hotel  de  France  et  de 
Londres,  which  he  says  is  famous  in  this  section. 
Besides,  it  is  well  worth  while  to  ascend  the  hill 
for  the  panorama  of  St.  Michel's  Bay,  with  its 
cathedral-crowned  islet,  which  may  be  seen  to  the 
best  advantage  from  the  town.  It  is  a  stiff,  wind- 
ing climb  to  the  summit,  but  we  reach  the  cobble- 
paved,  vine-embowered  court  of  the  hotel  just  in 
time  for  dinner.  I  suppose  the  "Londres"  was 
added  to  the  name  of  the  inn  with  a  view  of 

20 


BOULOGNE    TO  ROUEN 

catching  the  English-speaking  trade,  which  is  con- 
siderable in  Avranches,  since  the  town  is  the  stop- 
ping-place of  many  tourists  who  visit  Mont  St. 
Michel.  From  the  courtyard  we  are  ushered  into 
the  dining-room  where,  after  the  fashion  of  country 
inns  in  France,  a  single  long  table  serves  all  the 
guests.  At  the  head  sits  the  proprietor,  a  suave, 
gray-bearded  gentleman  who  graciously  does  the 
courtesies  of  the  table.  The  meal  is  quite  an  elab- 
orate one  and  there  is  plenty  of  old  port  wine  for 
the  bibulously  inclined.  I  might  say  here  that  this 
inclusion  of  wines  without  extra  charge  is  a  common 
but  not  universal  practice  with  the  French  country 
inns;  generally  these  liquors  are  of  the  cheapest 
quality,  little  better  than  vinegar,  and  one  trial  will 
make  the  average  tourist  a  teetotaler  unless  he  wishes 
to  order  a  better  grade  as  an  "extra."  After  the 
meal  our  host  comes  out  to  wish  us  "bon  voyage" 
as  we  depart  and  we  are  at  a  loss  to  understand 
his  intention  when  he  picks  up  a  small  ladder  and 
begins  climbing  up  the  wall.  We  see,  however, 
that  a  rose-vine  bearing  a  few  beautiful  blossoms 
clings  to  the  stones  above  a  window.  The  old  gen- 
tleman cuts  some  of  the  choicest  flowers  and  pre- 
sents them,  with  a  gracious  bow,  to  the  lady  of 
our  party. 

The  new  causeway  makes  Mont  St.  Michel  easily 
21 


THROUGH  SUMMER  FRANCE 

accessible  to  motorists  and  affords  a  splendid  view 
as  one  approaches  the  towered  and  pinnacled  rock 
and  the  little  town  that  climbs  its  steep  sides.  For- 
merly the  ride  covered  the  rough  road  that  led  to 
the  mount,  much  the  same  as  it  still  covers  the 
approach  to  the  Cornish  St.  Michael;  but  the  new 
grade  is  above  high-tide  level  and  the  abbey  may 
be  reached  at  any  time  of  the  day.  It  is  a  wear- 
isome climb  to  the  summit — for  the  car  cannot  enter 
the  narrow  streets  of  the  town — and  for  some  time 
we  wait  the  pleasure  of  the  guide,  who,  being  a 
government  official,  does  not  permit  himself  to  be 
unduly  hurried.  He  speaks  only  French  and  but 
for  the  Captain's  services  we  should  know  little  of 
his  story.  To  our  half-serious  remark  that  a  lift 
would  save  visitors  some  hard  work  he  replies 
with  a  shrug, 

"A  lift  in  Mont  St.  Michel?  It  wouldn't  be 
Mont  St.  Michel  any  longer!" — a  hint  of  how 
carefully  the  atmosphere  of  mediaevalism  is  pre- 
served here. 

The  abbey  as  it  stands  to-day  is  largely  the  result 
of  an  extensive  restoration  begun  by  the  government 
in  1863.  This  accounts  for  the  surprisingly  perfect 
condition  of  much  of  the  building,  and  it  also  con- 
firms the  wisdom  of  the  undertaking  by  which  a 
great  service  has  been  rendered  to  architecture. 


BOULOGNE   TO  ROUEN 

Previous  to  the  restoration  the  abbey  was  used  as 
a  prison,  but  it  is  now  chiefly  a  show-place,  though 
services  are  regularly  conducted  in  the  chapel. 
Especially  noteworthy  are  the  cloisters,  a  thirteenth- 
century  reproduction,  with  two  hundred  and  twenty 
columns  of  polished  granite  embedded  in  the  wall 
and  ranged  in  double  arcades,  the  graceful  vaults 
decorated  with  exquisite  carving  and  a  beautiful 
frieze.  The  most  notable  apartment  is  the  Hall  of 
the  Chevaliers,  likewise  a  thirteenth-century  replica. 
The  vaulting  of  solid  stone  is  supported  by  a  triple 
row  of  massive  columns  running  the  full  length  of 
nearly  one  hundred  feet — like  ranks  of  giant  tree 
trunks.  There  is  a  beautiful  chapel  and  dungeons 
and  crypts  galore,  the  names  of  which  we  made 
no  attempt  to  remember.  Likewise  we  gave  little 
attention  to  the  historic  episodes  of  the  mount, 
which  are  not  of  great  importance.  The  interest 
of  the  tourist  centers  in  the  remarkably  striking 
effect  of  the  great  group  of  Gothic  buildings  crown- 
ing the  rock  and  in  the  artistic  beauty  of  the  archi- 
tectural details.  Many  wonderful  views  of  the  sea 
and  of  the  hills  and  towns  around  the  bay  may  be 
seen  to  splendid  advantage  from  the  terraces  and 
battlements.  There  are  a  number  of  pleasant  little  tea 
gardens  where  one  may  order  light  refreshments  and 
in  the  meanwhile  enjoy  a  most  inspiring  view  of  the 

23 


THROUGH  SUMMER  FRANCE 

sea  and  distant  landscape.  The  little  town  at  the 
foot  of  the  rock  is  a  quaint  old-world  place  with 
a  single  street  but  a  few  feet  wide.  The  small 
population  subsists  on  tourist  trade — restaurants  and 
souvenir  shops  making  up  the  village.  Little  is 
doing  to-day,  as  we  are  in  advance  of  the  liveliest 
season.  The  greatest  number  of  visitors  come  on 
Sunday — a  gala  day  at  Mont  St.  Michel  in  summer. 

A  rough,  stony  road  takes  us  to  St.  Malo  and 
adds  considerable  wearisome  tire  trouble  to  an  al- 
ready strenuous  day.  We  are  glad  to  stop  at  the 
Hotel  de  Univers,  even  though  it  is  not  prepos- 
sessing from  without. 

St.  Male's  antiquity  and  quaintness  are  its  stock 
in  trade,  and  these,  together  with  its  position  on 
a  peninsula,  with  the  sea  on  every  hand,  make  it 
one  of  the  most  popular  resorts  in  France.  Steamers 
from  Southampton  bring  numbers  of  English  visitors 
— we  find  no  interpreter  needed  at  the  hotel.  The 
town  is  encircled  by  walls,  the  greater  part  recently 
restored.  They  are  none  the  less  picturesque  and 
the  mighty  towers  at  the  entrance  gateways  savor 
strongly  indeed  of  mediaevalism.  In  the  older  part 
of  the  town  the  streets  are  so  narrow  and  crooked 
as  to  exclude  motors,  the  widest  not  exceeding  twen- 
ty feet,  and  there  are  seldom  walks  on  either  side. 
The  houses  bordering  them  show  every  evidence  of 

24 


A  STREET  IN  ST.  MALO 


BOULOGNE    TO  ROUEN 

age — St.  Malo  is  best  described  by  the  often  over- 
worked term,  "old-world."  The  huge  church — for- 
merly a  cathedral — is  so  hedged  in  by  buildings  that 
it  is  impossible  to  get  a  good  view  of  the  exterior  or  to 
take  a  satisfactory  photograph.  As  a  result  of  such 
crowding  it  is  poorly  lighted  inside,  though  it  really 
has  an  impressive  interior.  A  walk  round  the  walls 
or  ramparts  of  St.  Malo  affords  a  wonderful  view  of 
the  sea  and  surrounding  country  and  also  many 
interesting  glimpses  of  queer  nooks  and  corners  in 
the  town  itself.  The  bay  is  finest  at  full  tide,  which 
rises  here  to  the  astonishing  height  of  forty-nine  feet 
above  low  water.  There  are  numerous  fortified 
islands  and  it  is  possible  to  reach  some  of  these  on 
foot  when  the  tide  is  out.  St.  Malo  was  besieged 
many  times  during  the  endless  wars  between  Eng- 
land and  France,  but  owing  to  its  remarkable  forti- 
fications was  never  taken. 

There  is  more  rough,  badly  worn  road  between 
St.  Malo  and  Rennes,  though  in  the  main  it  is 
broad  and  level.  Its  effect  on  tires  is  indeed  dis- 
heartening— we  have  run  less  than  a  thousand  miles 
since  landing  and  new  envelopes  are  showing  signs 
of  dissolution.  Part  of  the  game,  no  doubt,  but 
it  is  hard  to  be  cheerful  losers  in  such  a  game,  to 
say  the  least. 

Rennes,  we  find,  has  other  claims  to  fame  than 
25 


THROUGH  SUMMER  FRANCE 

the  Dreyfus  trial,  which  is  the  first  distinction  that 
comes  to  mind.  Its  public  museum  and  galleries 
contain  one  of  the  best  provincial  collections  in 
France,  and  there  is  an  imposing  modern  cathe- 
dral. We  have  an  excellent  lunch  at  the  Grand 
Hotel,  though  it  is  a  dingy-looking  place  that  would 
hardly  invite  a  lengthy  stop  if  appearances  should 
be  considered.  It  is  not  Baedeker's  number  one 
and  there  is  doubtless  a  better  hotel  in  Rennes. 

The  road  which  we  follow  in  leaving  the  town 
is  the  best  we  have  yet  traversed  in  France;  it  is 
broad,  straight  and  newly  surfaced,  and  the  thirty 
or  more  miles  to  Chateaubriant  are  rapidly  covered. 
Here  we  find  an  ancient  town  of  a  few  thousand 
people,  and  an  enormous  old  castle  partly  in  ruins, 
a  fit  match  for  Conway  or  Harlech  in  Britain.  Its 
square-topped,  crenelated  towers  and  long  em- 
brasured battlements  are  quite  different  from  the 
pointed  Gothic  style  of  the  usual  French  chateau. 

Beyond  Chateaubriant  the  road  runs  broad  and 
straight  for  miles  through  a  beautiful  and  prosperous 
country.  Evidently  the  land  is  immensely  fertile 
and  tilled  with  the  thoroughness  that  characterizes 
French  agriculture.  The  small  village  is  the  only 
discordant  note.  We  pass  through  several  all  alike, 
bare,  dirty  and  uninteresting,  quite  different  from 
the  trim,  flower-decked  beauty  of  the  English  village. 


BOULOGNE    TO  ROUEN 

And  they  grow  steadily  more  repulsive  as  we  pro- 
gress farther  inland  until,  as  we  near  the  German 
border — but  the  subject  is  not  pleasant  enough  to 
anticipate ! 

Angers  is  a  cathedral  town  of  eighty  thousand 
people  on  the  River  Maine,  two  or  three  miles 
above  its  confluence  with  the  Loire.  It  is  of  ancient 
origin,  but  the  French  passion  for  making  every- 
thing new  (according  to  an  English  critic)  has 
swept  away  most  of  its  old-time  landmarks  save  the 
castle  and  cathedral.  The  former  was  one  of  the 
most  extensive  mediaeval  fortresses  in  all  France  and 
is  still  imposing,  despite  the  fact  that  several  of  its 
original  seventeen  towers  have  been  razed  and  its 
great  moat  filled  up.  It  is  now  more  massive  than 
picturesque.  "It  has  no  beauty,  no  grace,  no  detail, 
nothing  to  charm  or  detain  you ;  it  is  simply  very  old 
and  very  big  and  it  takes  its  place  in  your  recollect- 
tions  as  a  perfect  specimen  of  a  superannuated 
feudal  stronghold."  The  huge  bastions,  girded  with 
iron  bands,  and  the  high  perpendicular  walls  spring- 
ing out  of  the  dark  waters  of  the  moat  must  have 
made  the  castle  impregnable  against  any  method  of 
assault  before  the  days  of  artillery.  The  castle  is 
easily  the  most  distinctive  feature  of  Angers  and 
the  one  every  visitor  should  see,  though  I  must  con- 
fess we  failed  to  visit  it.  We  should  also  have  seen 

27 


THROUGH  SUMMER  FRANCE 

the  cathedral  and  museum,  but  museums  consume 
time  and  time  is  the  first  consideration  on  a  motor 
tour. 

Our  Hotel,  the  Grand,  though  old,  is  cleanly  and 
pleasant,  with  high  ceilings  and  broad  corridors 
which  have  immense  full-length  mirrors  at  every 
turn.  The  prices  for  all  this  magnificence  are  quite 
moderate — largely  due,  no  doubt,  to  the  Captain's 
prearrangement  with  the  manager.  The  service, 
however,  is  a  little  slack,  especially  at  the  table. 

At  Angers  we  are  in  the  edge  of  the  Chateau 
District,  and  as  my  chapter  has  already  run  to 
considerable  length,  I  shall  avail  myself  of  this  logical 
stopping  place.  The  story  of  the  French  chateaus 
has  filled  many  a  good-sized  volume  and  may  well 
occupy  a  separate  chapter  In  this  rather  hurried 
record. 


28 


II 

THE  CHATEAU  DISTRICT 

For  more  than  two  hundred  miles  after  leaving 
Angers  we  follow  a  road  that  may  justly  be  described 
as  one  of  the  most  unique  and  picturesque  in  France. 
It  seldom  takes  us  out  of  sight  of  the 
shining  Loire  and  most  of  the  way  it  runs 
on  an  embankment  directly  overlooking  the 
river,  affording  a  panoramic  view  of  the 
fertile  valley  which  stretches  to  green  hills  on 
either  side.  The  embankment  is  primarily  to  confine 
the  waters  during  freshets,  but  its  broad  level  top 
makes  an  excellent  roadbed,  which  is  generally  in 
good  condition.  A  few  miles  out  of  Angers  we  get 
our  first  view  of  the  Loire,  a  majestic  river  three  or 
four  hundred  yards  in  width  and  in  full  flow  at  the 
present  time.  Occasional  islets  add  to  the  beauty 
of  the  scene  and  the  landscape  on  either  hand 
is  studded  with  splendid  trees.  It  is  an  opulent- 
looking  country  and  we  pass  miles  of  green  fields 
interspersed  at  times  with  unbroken  stretches  of  forest. 
There  are  several  towns  and  villages  on  both  sides 
of  the  river  and  they  are  cleaner  and  better  in 

29 


THROUGH  SUMMER  FRANCE 

appearance  than  those  we  passed  yesterday.  Near 
Tours  the  country  becomes  more  broken  and  the 
hillsides  are  covered  with  endless  vineyards.  In 
places  the  clifflike  hills  rise  close  to  the  roadside 
and  these  are  honeycombed  with  caves;  some  are 
occupied  as  dwellings  by  the  peasants,  but  the 
greater  number  serve  as  storage  cellars  for  wine, 
which  is  produced  in  large  quantities  in  this  vicin- 
ity. These  modern  "cliff-dwellers"  are  not  so  poor 
as  their  homes  would  indicate;  there  are  many  well- 
to-do  peasants  among  them.  In  fact,  the  very  poor 
are  scarce  in  rural  France;  the  universal  habits  of 
industry  and  economy  have  spread  prosperity  among 
all  classes  of  people;  rough  attire  and  squalid  sur- 
roundings are  seldom  indicative  of  real  poverty,  as 
in  England.  Everybody  is  engaged  in  some  useful 
occupation — old  women  may  be  seen  herding  a 
cow,  donkey  or  geese  by  the  roadside  and  knitting 
industriously  the  while. 

Tours  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  the  older 
French  provincial  cities.  We  have  a  fine  view  of 
the  town  from  across  the  Loire  as  we  approach, 
for  it  lies  on  the  south  side  of  the  river.  It  is  a 
famous  tourist  center — perhaps  the  first  objective, 
after  Paris,  of  the  majority  of  Americans  and  Eng- 
lish, and  it  has  several  pretentious  hotels.  We 
choose  the  newest,  the  Metropole,  which  proves 

80 


THE  CHATEAU  DISTRICT 

very  satisfactory.  Here  the  Captain's  wiles  fail  to 
reduce  the  first-named  tariff,  for  the  hotel  is  full, 
and  we  can  only  guess  what  the  charge  might  have 
been  if  not  agreed  upon  in  advance.  In  defense 
of  his  bargaining  the  Captain  tells  a  story  of  a 
previous  trip  he  made  with  an  American  party  in 
Italy.  English  was  spoken  at  a  hotel  where  one 
of  the  party  asked  the  rates  and  the  proprietor, 
assuming  that  his  prospective  guests  did  not  under- 
stand the  language  of  the  country,  had  a  little  by- 
talk  with  a  henchman  as  to  charges  and  remarked 
that  the  tourists,  being  Americans,  would  probably 
stand  three  or  four  times  the  regular  rates,  which 
the  inn-keeper  proceeded  to  ask.  He  was  greatly 
chagrinned  when  the  Captain  repeated  the  sub- 
stance of  the  conversation  he  had  heard  and  told 
the  would-be  robber  that  the  party  would  seek  ac- 
commodations elsewhere. 

I  will  let  this  little  digression  take  the  place  of 
descriptive  remarks  concerning  Tours,  which  has 
probably  been  written  about  more  than  any  other 
city  in  France  excepting  Paris.  The  cathedral 
everyone  will  see;  it  is  especially  noteworthy  for 
the  facade,  which  is  the  best  and  most  ornate  exam- 
ple of  the  so-called  Flamboyant  style  in  existence. 
The  great  Renaissance  towers  are  comparatively 

31 


THROUGH  SUMMER  FRANCE 

modern  and  to  our  mind  lack  the  grace  and  fit- 
ness of  the  pointed  Gothic  style. 

The  country  about  Tours  has  more  to  attract  the 
tourist  than  the  city  itself,  for  within  a  few  miles 
are  the  famous  chateaus  which  have  been  exploited 
by  literary  travelers  of  all  degrees.  But  it  has  lost 
none  of  its  charm  on  that  account  and  perhaps  every 
writer  has  presented  to  some  extent  a  different  view- 
point of  its  beauty  and  romance.  Touraine  is  quite 
unlike  any  other  part  of  France;  its  vistas  of  grayish- 
green  levels,  diversified  with  slim  shimmering  pop- 
lars and  flashes  of  its  broad  lazy  rivers,  are  quite 
unique  and  characteristic.  And  when  such  a  land- 
scape is  dotted  with  an  array  of  splendid  historic 
palaces  such  as  Blois,  Amboise,  Chinon,  Chaumont 
and  Chenonceaux,  it  assuredly  reaches  the  height 
of  romantic  interest.  All  of  these,  it  is  true,  are 
not  within  the  exact  political  limits  of  Touraine, 
but  all  are  within  easy  reach  of  Tours. 

We  make  Chenonceaux  our  objective  for  the 
afternoon.  It  lies  a  little  more  than  twenty  miles 
east  of  Tours  and  the  road  follows  the  course  of 
the  Cher  almost  the  whole  distance.  The  palace 
stands  directly  above  the  river,  supported  on  mas- 
sive arches  which  rest  on  piles  in  the  bed  of  the 
stream.  A  narrow  drawbridge  at  either  end  cuts 
the  entrances  from  the  shore,  though  these  bridges 

32 


THE  CHATEAU  DISTRICT 

were  never  intended  as  a  means  of  defense.  Chen- 
onceaux  was  in  no  sense  a  military  fortress — its 
memories  are  of  love  and  jealousy  and  not  of  war 
or  assassination.  It  was  built  early  in  the  sixteenth 
century  by  a  receiver  of  taxes  to  King  Francis,  but 
so  much  of  the  public  funds  went  into  the  work 
that  its  projector  died  in  disgrace  and  his  son 
atoned  as  best  he  could  by  turning  the  chateau  over 
to  the  king. 

And  here,  in  the  heart  of  old  France,  we  come 
upon  another  memory  of  Mary  Stuart,  for  here,  with 
Francis  II.,  she  spent  her  honeymoon — if,  indeed, 
we  may  style  her  short  loveless  marriage  a  honey- 
moon— coming  direct  from  Amboise,  where  she  had 
unwillingly  witnessed  the  awful  scenes  of  the  mas- 
sacre of  the  Huguenots.  What  must  have  been 
the  reveries  of  the  girl-queen  at  Chenonceaux!  In 
a  foreign  land,  surrounded  by  a  wicked,  intriguing 
court,  with  scenes  of  bloodshed  and  death  on  every 
hand  and  wedded  to  a  hopeless  imbecile,  fore- 
doomed to  early  death — surely  teven  the  strange 
beauty  of  the  river  palace  could  not  have  driven 
these  terrible  ghosts  from  her  mind. 

Chenonceaux  has  many  memories  of  love  and 
intrigue,  for  here  in  1546  Francis  I.  and  his  mis- 
tress, the  famous  Diane  of  Poitiers,  gave  a  great 
hunting  party;  but  the  heir-apparent,  Prince  Henry, 

33 


THROUGH  SUMMER  FRANCE 

soon  gained  the  affections  of  the  fair  Diane  and  on 
his  accession  to  the  throne  presented  her  with  the 
chateau,  to  which  she  had  taken  a  great  fancy. 
She  it  was  who  built  the  bridgelike  hall  connecting 
the  castle  with  the  south  bank  of  the  river  and 
she  otherwise  improved  the  palace  and  grounds; 
but  on  the  death  of  the  king,  twelve  years  later, 
the  queen — the  terrible  Catherine  de  Medici — com- 
pelled Diane  to  give  up  Chenonceaux  and  to  be- 
take herself  to  the  older  and  less  attractive  Chau- 
mont.  The  chateau  escaped  serious  injury  during 
the  fiery  period  of  the  Revolution,  but  the  insur- 
rectionists compelled  the  then  owner,  Madame 
Dupin,  to  surrender  her  securities,  furniture,  price- 
less paintings  and  objects  of  art — the  collection  of 
nearly  three  centuries — and  all  were  destroyed  in 
a  bonfire. 

Chenonceaux  is  now  the  property  of  a  wealthy 
Cuban  who  has  spent  a  fortune  in  its  restoration 
and  improving  the  grounds,  which  accounts  for  the 
trim,  new  appearance  of  the  place.  The  great 
avenue  leading  from  the  public  entrance  passes 
through  formal  gardens  brilliant  with  flowers  and 
beautified  with  rare  shrubbery  and  majestic  trees. 
It  is  a  pleasant  and  romantic  place  and  the  con- 
siderateness  of  the  owner  in  opening  it  to  visitors 
for  a  trifling  fee  deserves  commendation. 

34 


THE  CHATEAU  DISTRICT 

Quite  different  are  the  memories  of  Amboise, 
the  vast,  acropolislike  pile  which  towers  over  the 
Loire  some  dozen  miles  beyond  Tours  and  which 
we  reach  early  the  next  day  after  a  delightful  run 
along  the  broad  river.  We  have  kept  to  the  north 
bank  and  cross  the  river  into  the  little  village,  from 
which  a  steep  ascent  leads  to  the  chateau.  The 
present  structure  is  largely  the  result  of  modern 
restoration,  the  huge  round  tower  being  about  all 
that  remains  of  the  ancient  castle.  This  contains 
a  circular  inclined  plane,  up  which  Emperor  Charles 
V.  of  the  Holy  Roman  Empire  rode  on  horseback 
when  he  visited  Francis  I.  in  1539,  and  it  is  pos- 
sible for  a  medium-sized  automobile  to  make  the 
ascent  to-day. 

Amboise  is  chiefly  remembered  for  the  awful 
deeds  of  Catherine  de  Medici,  who  from 
the  balcony  overlooking  the  town  watched 
the  massacre,  which  she  personally  di- 
rected, of  twelve  hundred  Huguenots.  With  her 
were  the  young  king,  Francis  II.,  and  his  bride, 
Mary  Stuart,  who  were  compelled  to  witness  the 
series  of  horrible  executions  which  were  carried  out 
in  the  presence  of  the  court.  The  leaders  were 
hung  from  the  iron  balconies  and  others  were  mur- 
dered in  the  courtyard.  They  met  their  fate  with 
stern  religious  enthusiasm,  singing,  it  is  recorded, 

35 


THROUGH  SUMMER  PRANCE 

until  death  silenced  their  voices.  The  direct  cause 
of  the  massacre  was  the  discovery  of  a  plot  on 
the  part  of  the  Huguenot  leaders  to  abduct  the 
young  king  in  order  to  get  him  from  under  the 
evil  influence  of  his  mother. 

The  chateau  contains  a  tomb  that  alone  should 
make  it  the  shrine  of  innumerable  pilgrims,  for 
here  is  buried  that  many-sided  genius,  Leonardo  da 
Vinci,  who  died  in  Amboise  in  1519  and  whom 
many  authorities  regard  as  the  most  remarkable  man 
the  human  race  has  yet  produced. 

But  enough  of  horrors  and  tombs;  we  go  out  on 
the  balcony,  where  the  old  tigress  stood  in  that 
far-off  day,  and  contemplate  the  enchanting  scene 
that  lies  beneath  us.  Out  beyond  the  blue  river 
a  wide  peaceful  plain  stretches  to  the  purple  hills 
in  the  far  distance;  just  below  are  the  gray  roofs 
of  the  town  and  there  are  glorious  vistas  up  and 
down  the  broad  stream.  This  is  the  memory  we 
should  prefer  to  carry  away  with  us,  rather  than 
that  of  the  murderous  deeds  of  Catherine  de  Medici ! 

On  arriving  at  Blois,  twenty  miles  farther  down 
the  river  road,  thoughts  of  belated  luncheon  first 
engage  our  minds  and  the  Hotel  de  Angleterre 
sounds  good,  looks  good,  and  proves  good,  indeed. 
Its  dining-room  is  a  glass-enclosed  balcony  over- 
hanging the  river,  which  adds  a  picturesque  view 

36 


GRAND  STAIRWAY  OF  FRANCIS  I.  AT  BLOIS 


THE  CHATEAU  DISTRICT 

to  a  very  excellent  meal.  The  chateau,  a  vast  quad- 
rangular pile  surrounding  a  great  court,  is  but  a 
short  distance  from  the  hotel.  Only  the  historic 
apartments  are  shown — quite  enough,  since  several 
hours  would  be  required  to  make  a  complete  round 
of  the  enormous  edifice.  The  castle  has  passed 
into  the  hands  of  the  government  and  is  being  care- 
fully restored.  It  is  planned  to  make  it  a  great 
museum  of  art  and  history  and  several  rooms  already 
contain  an  important  collection.  The  palace  was 
built  at  different  periods,  from  the  thirteenth  to  the 
seventeenth  centuries,  and  was  originally  a  noble- 
man's home,  but  later  a  residence  of  the  kings  of 
France. 

Inside  the  court  our  attention  is  attracted  by  the 
elaborate  decorations  and  carvings  of  the  walls.  On 
one  side  is  a  long  open  gallery  supported  by  richly 
wrought  columns;  but  most  marvelous  is  the  great 
winding  stairway  projecting  from  the  wall  and  open 
on  the  inner  side.  Every  inch  of  this  structure — its 
balconies,  its  pillars  and  its  huge  central  column — 
is  wrought  over  with  beautiful  images  and  strange 
devices,  among  which  the  salamander  of  Francis  I. 
is  most  noticeable.  When  we  have  admired  the 
details  of  the  court  to  our  satisfaction,  the  guide 
conducts  us  through  a  labyrinth  of  gorgeously 
decorated  rooms  with  many  magnificent  fireplaces 

37 


THOROUGH    SUMMER    FRANCE 

and  mantels  but  otherwise  quite  unfurnished.  The 
apartments  of  the  crafty  and  cruel  Catherine  de 
Medici  are  especially  noteworthy,  one  of  them — 
her  study — having  no  fewer  than  one  hundred  and 
fifty  carved  panels  which  conceal  secret  crypts  and 
hiding-places.  These  range  from  small  boxes — evi- 
dently for  jewels  or  papers — to  a  closet  large  enough 
for  one  to  hide  in. 

The  overshadowing  tragic  event  of  Blois — there 
were  a  host  of  minor  ones — was  the  assassination 
of  the  Duke  of  Guise  in  1588.  Henry  III.,  a 
weak  and  vacillating  king,  was  completely  dominated 
by  this  powerful  nobleman,  whose  fanatical  religious 
zeal  led  him  to  establish  a  league  to  restore  the 
supremacy  of  the  Catholic  religion.  The  king  was 
forced  to  proclaim  the  duke  lieutenant-general  of 
the  kingdom  and  to  pledge  himself  to  extirpate  the 
heretics;  but  despite  his  outward  compliance  Henry 
was  resolved  on  vengeance.  According  to  the 
ideas  of  the  times  an  objectionable  courtier  could 
best  be  removed  by  assassination  and  this  the  king 
determined  upon.  He  piously  ordered  two  court 
priests  to  pray  for  the  success  of  his  plan  and  sum- 
moned the  duke  to  his  presence.  Guise  was  stand- 
ing before  the  fire  in  the  great  dining-room  and 
though  he  doubtless  suspected  his  royal  master** 
kind  intentions  toward  him,  walked  into  the  next 

38 


THE  CHATEAU  DISTRICT 

room,  where  nine  of  the  king's  henchmen  awaited 
him.  They  offered  no  immediate  violence,  but  fol- 
lowed him  into  the  corridor,  where  they  at  once 
drew  swords  and  fell  upon  him.  Even  against  such 
odds  the  duke,  who  was  a  powerful  man,  made 
a  strong  resistance  and  though  repeatedly  stabbed, 
fought  his  way  to  the  king's  room,  where  he  fell 
at  the  foot  of  the  royal  bed.  Henry,  when  assured 
that  his  enemy  was  really  dead,  came  trembling  out 
of  the  adjoining  room  and  kicking  the  corpse,  ex- 
claimed, "How  big  he  is;  bigger  dead  than  alive!" 
The  next  morning  the  duke's  brother,  the  Cardinal 
of  Lorraine,  was  also  murdered  in  the  castle  as  he 
was  hastening  to  obey  a  summons  from  the  king. 

There  is  little  suggestion  of  such  horrors  in  the 
polished  floors  and  gilded  walls  that  surround  us 
today  as  we  hear  the  Captain  translate  the  grue- 
some details  from  the  guide's  voluble  sentences. 
We  listen  only  perfunctorily;  it  all  seems  unreason- 
able and  unreal  as  the  sun,  breaking  from  the  clouds 
that  have  prevailed  much  of  the  day,  floods  the 
great  apartments  with  light.  We  have  not  followed 
this  tale  of  blood  and  treachery  closely;  it  is  only 
another  reminder  that  cruelty  and  inhumanity  were 
very  common  a  few  centuries  ago. 

There  is  a  minor  cathedral  in  Blois,  but  the  most 
interesting  church  is  St.  Nicholas,  formerly  a  part 

39 


THROUGH  SUMMER  FRANCE 

of  the  abbey  and  dating  from  1 1 38.  Its  hand- 
some facade  with  twin  towers  is  the  product  of 
recent  restoration.  There  are  also  many  quaint 
timbered  house  in  Blois,  dating  from  the  fifteenth 
century  and  later,  but  we  pay  little  attention  to 
them.  I  hardly  know  why  our  enthusiasm  for  old 
French  houses  is  so  limited,  considering  how  eagerly 
we  sought  such  bits  of  antiquity  in  England. 

We  pursue  the  river  road  the  rest  of  the  day, 
though  in  places  it  swings  several  miles  from  the 
Loire — or  does  the  Loire  swing  from  the  road, 
which  seems  arrow-straight  everywhere? — and  cuts 
across  some  lovely  rural  country.  Fields  of  grain, 
just  beginning  to  ripen,  predominate  and  there  are 
also  green  meadows  and  patches  of  carmine  clover. 
Crimson  poppies  and  blue  cornflowers  gleam  among 
the  wheat,  lending  a  touch  of  brilliant  color  to 
the  billowy  fields. 

The  village  of  Beaugency,  which  we  passed 
about  midway  between  Tours  and  Orleans,  is  one 
that  will  arrest  the  attention  of  the  casual  passer- 
by. It  is  more  reminiscent  of  the  castellated  small 
town  of  England  than  one  often  finds  in  France. 
It  is  overshadowed  by  a  huge  Norman  keep  with 
sheltered,  ivy-grown  parapets,  the  sole  remaining 
portion  of  an  eleventh-century  castle.  The  re- 
mainder of  the  present  castle  was  built  as  a  strong- 

40 


THE  CHATEAU  DISTRICT 

hold  against  the  English,  only  to  be  taken  by  them 
shortly  after  its  completion.  The  invaders,  however, 
were  driven  out  by  the  French  army  under  Joan 
of  Arc  in  1429.  The  bridge  at  Beaugency  is  the 
oldest  on  the  Loire,  having  spanned  the  river  since 
the  thirteenth  century.  The  town  has  stood  several 
sieges  and  was  the  scene  of  terrible  excesses  in  the 
religious  wars  of  the  sixteenth  century,  the  abbey 
having  been  burned  by  the  Protestants  in  1567. 

Towards  evening  we  again  come  to  the  river 
bank  and  ere  long  the  towers  of  Orleans  break  on 
our  view.  Despite  its  great  antiquity  the  city  ap- 
pears quite  modern,  for  it  has  been  so  rebuilt  that 
but  few  of  its  ancient  landmarks  remain.  Even  the 
cathedral  is  a  modern  restoration — almost  in  toto 
— and  there  is  scarcely  a  complete  building  in  the 
town  antedating  1 500.  The  main  streets  are  broad 
and  well-paved  and  electric  trams  run  on  many  of 
them.  Our  hotel,  the  Grand  Aignan,  is  rather 
old-fashioned  and  somewhat  dingy,  but  it  is  clean 
and  comfortable  and  its  rates  are  not  exorbitant. 
There  is  a  modern  and  more  fashionable  hotel  in 
the  city,  but  we  have  learned  that  second-class  inns 
in  cities  of  medium  size  are  often  good  and  much 
easier  on  one's  purse. 

Our  first  thought,  when  we  begin  our  after- 
dinner  ramble,  is  that  Orleans  should  change  its 

41 


THROUGH  SUMMER  FRANCE 

name  to  Jeanne  d'Arcville.  I  know  of  no  other 
instance  where  a  city  of  seventy  thousand  people 
is  so  completely  dominated  by  a  single  name.  The 
statues,  the  streets,  the  galleries,  museums,  churches 
and  shops — all  remind  one  of  the  immortal  Maid 
who  made  her  first  triumphal  entry  into  Orleans  in 
1429,  when  the  city  was  hard  pressed  by  the 
English  besiegers.  Every  postcard  and  souvenir 
urged  upon  the  visitor  has  something  to  do  with 
the  patron  saint  of  the  town  and,  after  a  little,  one 
falls  in  with  the  spirit  of  the  place,  rejoicing  that 
the  memories  of  Orleans  are  only  of  success  and 
triumph  and  forgetting  Rouen's  dark  chapter  of 
defeat  and  death. 

In  the  morning  we  first  go  to  the  cathedral — 
an  ornate  and  imposing  church,  though  one  that 
the  critics  have  dealt  with  rather  roughly.  It  faces 
the  wide  Rue  Jeanne  d'Arc — again  Orleans' 
charmed  name — and  it  seems  to  us  that  the  whole 
vast  structure  might  well  be  styled  a  memorial  to 
the  immortal  Maid  of  France.  The  facade  is 
remarkable  for  its  Late-Gothic  towers,  nearly  three 
hundred  feet  high,  while  between  them  to  the  rear 
rises  the  central  spire,  some  fifty  feet  higher.  There 
are  three  great  portals  beneath  massive  arches,  rising 
perhaps  one-fourth  the  height  of  the  towers,  and 
above  each  of  these  is  an  immense  rose  window. 

42 


THE  CHATEAU  DISTRICT 

Perhaps  the  design  as  a  whole  is  not  according  to 
the  best  architectural  tenets,  but  the  cathedral 
seems  grand  to  such  unsophisticated  critics  as  our- 
selves. Being  a  rather  late  restoration,  it  does  not 
show  the  wear  and  tear  of  the  ages,  like  so  many  of 
its  ancient  rivals,  and  perhaps  loses  a  little  charm  on 
this  account.  The  vast  vaultlike  interior  is  quite 
free  from  obstructions  to  one's  vision  and  is  lighted 
by  windows  of  beautifully  toned  modern  glass. 
These  depict  scenes  in  the  life  of  Joan  of  Arc, 
beginning  with  the  appearance  of  her  heavenly  mon- 
itors and  ending  with  her  martyrdom  at  the  stake. 
The  designing  is  of  remarkably  high  order  and  the 
color  toning  is  much  more  effective  than  one  often 
finds  in  modem  glass.  There  are  a  number  of  paint- 
ings and  images,  many  of  them  referring  to  the  ca- 
reer of  the  now  venerated  Maid.  The  usual  gaudy 
chapels  and  altars  of  French  cathedrals  are  in  evi- 
dence, though  none  are  especially  interesting. 

Orleans  has  several  other  churches  and  all  pay 
some  tribute  to  the  heroine  of  the  town.  A  small 
part  of  St.  Peter's  dates  from  the  ninth  century,  one 
of  the  few  relics  of  antiquity  to  be  found  in  Orleans. 
The  Hotel  de  Ville,  built  about  1530,  has  a  beau- 
tiful marble  figure  of  Joan  in  the  court,  and  an 
equestrian  statue  of  the  Maid  is  in  the  Grand 
Salon  of  the  building,  representing  her  horse  in  the 

43 


THROUGH  SUMMER  FRANCE 

act  of  trampling  a  mortally  wounded  Englishman. 
Both  of  these  statues  are  the  work  of  Princess 
Marie  of  Orleans — a  scion  of  the  old  royal  family 
of  France.  The  Hotel  de  Ville  also  recalls  a 
memory  of  Mary  Stuart;  here  in  1560  her  boy- 
husband,  Francis  II.,  expired  in  the  arms  of  his 
wife,  and  her  career  was  soon  transferred  from 
the  French  court  to  its  no  less  troubled  and  cruel 
contemporary  in  Scotland.  The  town  possesses  an 
unusually  good  museum,  which  includes  a  large  his- 
torical collection,  and  the  gallery  contains  a  number 
of  paintings  and  sculptures  of  real  merit.  Of 
course  one  will  wish  to  see  the  house  where  the 
patron  saint  of  the  town  lodged,  and  this  may  be 
found  at  No.  37  Rue  de  Tabour.  There  is  also 
on  the  same  street  the  Musee  Jeanne  d'Arc,  which 
contains  a  number  of  relics  and  paintings  relating 
to  the  heroine  and  her  times. 

But  for  all  the  worship  of  Joan  of  Arc  in 
Orleans,  she  was  not  a  native  of  the  place  and  actu- 
ally spent  only  a  short  time  within  the  walls  of 
the  old  city.  The  Maid  was  born  in  the  little 
village  of  Domremy  in  Lorraine,  some  two  hun- 
dred miles  eastward,  where  her  humble  birthplace 
may  still  be  seen  and  which  we  hope  to  visit  when 
we  make  our  next  incursion  into  France. 


44 


Ill 

ORLEANS  TO  THE  GERMAN  BORDER 

We  have  no  more  delightful  run  in  France  than 
our  easy  jaunt  from  Orleans  to  Nevers.  We  still 
follow  the  Loire  Valley,  though  the  road  only 
occasionally  brings  us  in  sight  of  the  somewhat 
diminished  river.  The  distance  is  but  ninety-six 
miles  over  the  most  perfect  of  roads  and  we  pro- 
ceed leisurely,  often  pausing  to  admire  the  land- 
scapes— beautiful  beyond  any  ability  of  mine  to 
adequately  describe.  The  roadside  resembles  a 
well-kept  lawn;  it  is  bordered  by  endless  rows  of 
majestic  trees  and  on  either  hand  are  fertile  fields 
which  show  every  evidence  of  the  careful  work  of 
the  farmer.  The  silken  sheen  of  bearded  wheat 
and  rye  is  dotted  with  crimson  poppies  and  starred 
with  pale-blue  cornflowers.  At  times  the  poppies 
have  gained  the  mastery  and  burn  like  a  spot  of 
flame  amidst  the  emerald-green  of  the  fields. 
Patches  of  dark-red  clover  lend  another  color  varia- 
tion, and  here  and  there  are  dashes  of  bright  yellow 
or  gleaming  white  of  buttercups  and  daisies.  With 
such  surroundings  and  on  such  a  clear,  exhilarat- 

45 


THROUGH  SUMMER  FRANCE 

ing  day  our  preconceived  ideals  of  the  beauty  of 
Summer  France  suffer  no  disenchantment. 

Cosne  is  an  old  river  town  now  rather  dominated 
by  manufactories  and  here  Pope  Pius  VII.  so- 
journed when  he  came  to  France  upon  the  neigh- 
borly invitation  of  Napoleon  I.  He  stopped  at  the 
Hotel  du  Cerf,  but  we  try  the  Moderne  for 
luncheon,  which  proves  unusually  good. 

About  three  o'clock  we  reach  Nevers  and  a 
sudden  thunder  shower  determines  us  to  stop  for 
the  night  at  the  Hotel  de  France.  Outside  it  is 
quite  unpretending,  though  queer  ornamental  panels 
between  the  windows  and  a  roof  of  moss-green 
tiles  redeem  it  somewhat  from  the  commonplace. 
We  have  no  reason  to  repent  our  decision,  for  the 
rambling  old  inn  is  scrupulously  clean  and  the  ser- 
vice has  the  personal  touch  that  indicates  the 
watchful  eye  of  a  managing  proprietor.  We  are 
somewhat  surprised  to  see  a  white-clad  chef  very 
much  in  evidence  about  the  hotel  and  even  taking 
a  lively  interest  in  guests  who  have  suffered  a  break- 
down and  are  wrestling  with  their  car  in  the  stable- 
yard  garage.  We  learn  that  this  chef  is  the  pro- 
prietor, and  his  wife,  an  English  woman,  is  the 
manageress.  The  combination  is  an  effective  one; 
English-speaking  guests  are  made  very  much  at 

46 


ORLEANS  TO  THE  GERMAN  BORDER 

home  and  the  excellence  of  the  meals  is  sufficient 
proof  of  the  competence  of  the  proprietor-chef. 

Nevers  has  a  cathedral  dating  in  part  from  the 
twelfth  century,  though  the  elaborate  tower  with 
its  host  of  sculptured  prophets,  apostles  and  saints 
was  built  some  three  hundred  years  later.  The 
most  notable  relic  of  mediaevalism  in  the  town  is 
the  queer  old  Port  du  Croux,  a  fourteenth-century 
watch-tower  which  one  time  formed  part  of  the 
fortifications.  It  is  a  noble  example  of  mediaeval 
defense — a  tall  gateway  tower  with  long  lancet 
openings  and  two  pointed  turrets  flanking  the  steep, 
tile-covered  roof.  The  ducal  palace  and  the  Hotel 
de  Ville  are  also  interesting  old-time  structures, 
though  neither  is  of  great  historic  importance.  The 
history  of  Nevers  is  in  sharp  contrast  with  the 
checkered  career  of  its  neighbor,  Orleans,  being 
quite  uneventful  and  prosaic.  It  is  a  quiet  place 
to-day,  its  chief  industry  being  the  potteries,  which 
have  been  in  existence  some  centuries. 

The  next  day,  thirty  miles  on  the  road  to  Autun, 
we  experience  our  first  break-down  in  eighteen 
thousand  miles  of  motoring  in  Europe — that  is,  a 
break-down  that  means  we  must  abandon  the  car 
for  the  time.  Near  the  little  village  of  Tamnay- 
Chatillon  an  axle-rod  breaks  and  a  new  one  must 
be  made  before  we  can  proceed.  Our  objective 

47 


THROUGH  SUMMER  FRANCE 

point,  Dijon,  is  the  nearest  place  where  we  will 
be  likely  to  find  facilities  for  repair  and  we  resolve 
to  go  thither  by  train.  We  have  been  so  delayed 
that  train-time  is  past  and  we  shall  have  to  pass 
the  night  at  the  village  inn.  It  is  extremely  annoy- 
ing at  the  time,  though  in  retrospect  we  are  glad 
of  our  experience  with  at  least  one  very  small  coun- 
try road-house  in  France.  The  inn  people  spare 
no  effort  to  make  us  as  comfortable  as  possible  and 
we  have  had  many  worse  meals  in  good-sized  cities 
than  is  served  to  us  this  evening.  Our  beds,  though 
apparently  clean,  are  not  very  restful,  but  we  are 
too  weary  to  be  excessively  critical.  The  next 
morning,  leaving  the  crippled  car  in  the  stable-yard, 
we  take  the  train  for  Dijon.  The  Captain  carries 
the  broken  axle-rod  as  a  pattern  and  soon  after  our 
arrival  a  workman  is  shaping  a  new  one  from  a 
steel  bar.  And  in  this  connection  I  might  remark 
that  we  found  the  average  French  mechanic  quick 
and  intelligent,  with  almost  an  intuitive  understand- 
ing of  a  piece  of  machinery.  Our  job  proves  slower 
than  we  anticipated;  the  work  can  be  done  by  only 
one  man  at  a  time  and  it  is  not  completed  before 
midnight  of  the  following  day. 

In  the  meanwhile  we  have  established  ourselves 
at  the  Grand  Hotel  de  la  Cloche,  a  pretentious — 
and,  as  it  proves,  a  very  expensive  stopping-place. 

48 


ORLEANS  TO  THE  GERMAN  BORDER 

We  have  large,  well-furnished  rooms  which  afford 
an  outlook  upon  a  small  park  fronting  the  hotel. 
Our  enforced  leisure  allows  us  considerably  more 
time  to  look  about  Dijon  than  we  have  been  giving 
to  such  towns  and  we  endeavor  to  make  the  most 
of  it.  The  town  is  one  of  the  military  centers  of 
France,  being  defended  by  no  fewer  than  eight 
detached  forts,  and  we  see  numerous  companies  of 
soldiers  on  the  streets. 

The  museum,  we  are  assured,  is  the  greatest 
"object  of  interest"  in  the  city  and,  indeed,  it  comes 
up  to  the  claims  made  for  it.  The  municipal 
art  gallery  contains  possibly  the  best  provincial  col- 
lection of  paintings  in  France — an  endless  array  of 
pictures  of  priceless  value,  representing  the  greatest 
names  of  French  art.  There  is  also  a  splen- 
did showing  of  sculpture,  occupying  five  separate 
rooms.  The  marble  tombs  of  Philip  the  Brave 
and  John  the  Fearless,  old-time  dukes  of  Burgundy, 
are  wonderful  creations.  They  were  originally  in 
the  Church  of  Chartreuse,  destroyed  in  1 793,  when 
the  tombs  were  removed  to  the  cathedral  in  a  some- 
what damaged  condition.  They  were  later  placed 
in  the  museum  and  restored  as  nearly  as  possible 
to  their  original  state.  Both  have  a  multitude  of 
marble  statuettes,  every  one  a  distinct  artistic  study 
— some  representing  mourners  for  the  deceased — 

49 


THROUGH  SUMMER  FRANCE 

and  each  little  face  has  some  peculiar  and  char- 
acteristic expression  of  grief.  The  strong  contrast 
of  white  and  black  marbles  is  relieved  by  judicious 
gilding  and,  altogether,  we  count  these  the  most 
elaborate  and  artistic  mediaeval  tombs  we  have 
seen,  if  we  except  the  Percy  monument  at  Beverly 
in  England.  The  museum  also  has  an  important 
archaeological  collection,  including  a  number  of 
historical  relics  found  in  the  vicinity,  for  the  city 
dates  back  to  Roman  times.  The  showing  of 
coins,  gems,  vases,  ivory,  cabinets  and  jewelry  would 
do  credit  to  any  metropolitan  museum.  And 
all  this  in  a  town  of  but  seventy-five 
thousand  people — which  shows  how  far  the  French 
municipalities  have  advanced  in  such  matters.  Dijon 
is  no  exception  in  this  regard,  though  other  cities 
of  the  class  may  not  quite  equal  this  collection, 
which  I  have  described  in  merest  outline. 

Dijon  has  several  churches  of  the  first  order, 
though  none  of  them  has  any  notable  distinguishing 
feature.  The  Cathedral  of  St.  Benigne  is  the  old- 
est, dating  in  its  present  form  from  about  1280, 
though  there  are  portions  which  go  back  still  farther. 
It  was  originally  built  as  an  abbey  church,  but  the 
remainder  of  the  abbatial  buildings  have  disap- 
peared. St.  Michael's  Church  is  some  four  hun- 
dred years  later  than  the  cathedral,  and  has,  ac- 

60 


ORLEANS  TO  THE  GERMAN  BORDER 

cording  to  the  guide-books,  a  Renaissance  facade, 
though  it  seems  to  us  to  be  better  described  as  a 
Moorish  adaptation  of  the  Gothic  style.  At  any 
rate,  it  is  an  inartistic  and  unattractive  structure  and 
illustrates  the  poor  results  often  attained  in  too 
great  an  effort  after  the  unusual.  Notre  Dame  is 
about  the  same  date  as  the  cathedral,  though  it 
has  been  so  extensively  restored  as  to  have  quite 
a  new  appearance.  Its  most  remarkable  feature  is 
its  queer  statuettes — nearly  a  hundred  little  figures 
contorted  into  endless  expressions  and  attitudes — 
which  serve  as  gargoyles.  The  churches  of  Dijon 
are  not  particularly  noteworthy  for  their  interiors 
and  none  has  especially  good  windows.  Our  ex- 
tended sojourn  in  the  city  enables  us  to  visit  a 
number  of  shops,  for  which  we  have  heretofore 
found  little  time.  These  are  well-stocked  and  at- 
tractive and  quite  in  keeping  with  a  city  of  the 
size  of  Dijon.  According  to  Herr  Baedeker,  the 
town  is  famous  "for  wine  and  corn,  and  its  mustard 
and  gingerbread  enjoy  a  wide  reputation." 

The  Captain  and  myself  take  an  early  train 
for  Tamnay-Chatillon  and  have  the  satisfaction  of 
finding  the  new  axle-rod  a  perfect  fit.  We  enjoy 
the  open  car  and  the  fine  road  more  than  ever 
after  our  enforced  experience  with  the  railway 
train.  The  country  between  Tamnay  and  Dijon 

51 


THROUGH  SUMMER  FRANCE 

is  rolling  and  the  road  often  winds  up  or  down  a 
great  hill  for  two  or  three  miles  at  a  stretch,  always 
with  even  and  well-engineered  gradients  that  in- 
sure an  easy  climb  or  a  long  exhilarating  coast. 
There  are  many  glorious  panoramas  from  the  hill- 
crests — wide  reaches  of  hill  and  valley,  with  groves 
and  vineyards  and  red-tiled  villages  nestling  in 
wooded  vales  or  lying  on  the  sunny  slopes.  Most 
of  the  towns  remain  unknown  to  us  by  name,  but 
the  Captain  points  out  Chateau  Chinon  clinging 
to  a  rather  steep  hillside  and  overshadowed  by  the 
vast  ruined  castle  which  once  defended  it.  A 
portion  of  the  old  wall  with  three  watch-towers 
still  stands — the  whole  effect  being  very  grim  and 
ancient.  Near  the  town  of  Pommard  the  hills 
are  literally  "vine-clad," — vineyards  everywhere 
running  up  to  the  very  edge  of  the  town. 

The  Hotel  St.  Louis  et  de  la  Poste  at  Autun 
does  not  present  a  very  attractive  exterior,  but  it 
proves  a  pleasant  surprise  and  we  are  hungry  enough 
to  do  justice  to  an  excellent  luncheon,  having 
breakfasted  in  Dijon  at  five  o'clock.  Autun  has 
an  unusual  cathedral — "a  curious  building  of  the 
transition  period" — some  parts  of  which  go  back 
as  far  as  the  tenth  century.  The  beautiful  Gothic 
spire — the  first  object  to  greet  our  eyes  when  ap- 
proaching the  town — was  built  about  1470.  Por- 

52 


ORLEANS  TO  THE  GERMAN  BORDER 

tions  of  the  old  fortifications  still  remain.  St.  An- 
drew's Gate,  partly  a  restoration,  is  an  imposing 
portal  pierced  by  four  archways  and  forms  one 
of  the  main  entrances.  There  is  also  the  usual 
museum  and  Hotel  de  Ville  to  be  found  in  all 
enterprising  provincial  towns  of  France. 

Beyond  Autun  the  character  of  the  country 
changes  again;  we  come  into  a  less  prosperous 
section,  intersected  by  stone  fences  which  cut  the 
rocky  hillsides  into  small  irregular  fields.  We  pass 
an  occasional  bare-looking  village  and  one  or  two 
ruined  chateaus  and  we  remark  on  the  scarcity  of 
ruins  in  France,  so  far  as  we  have  seen  it,  as 
compared  with  England.  A  more  fertile  and 
thriving  country  surrounds  Dijon,  which  we  reach 
in  the  late  afternoon. 

We  have  had  quite  enough  of  Dijon,  but  we 
shall  remain  until  morning;  an  early  start  should 
carry  us  well  toward  the  German  frontier  before 
night.  We  find  some  terribly  rough  roads  to 
Gray  and  Vesoul — macadam  which  has  begun  to 
disintegrate.  The  country  grows  quite  hilly  and 
while,  in  the  words  of  the  old  hymn,  "every  pros- 
pect pleases,"  we  are  indeed  tempted  to  add  that 
"only  man  is  vile."  For  the  filthiness  of  some  of 
the  villages  and  people  can  only  be  designated  as 
unspeakable;  if  I  should  describe  in  plain  lang- 

53 


THROUGH  SUMMER  FRANCE 

uage  the  conditions  we  behold,  my  book  might  be 
excluded  from  the  mails!  The  houses  of  these 
miserable  little  hamlets  stretch  in  single  file  along 
both  sides  of  the  broad  highway.  In  one  end  of 
the  house  lives  the  family  and  in  the  other  the 
domestic  animals — pigs,  cows  and  donkeys.  Along 
the  road  on  each  side  the  muck-piles  are  almost 
continuous  and  reach  to  the  windows  of  the 
cottages.  Recent  rains  have  flooded  the  streets 
with  seepage,  which  covers  the  road  to  a  depth 
of  two  or  three  inches,  and  the  odors  may  be 
imagined — if  one  feels  adequate  to  such  a  task. 
The  muck  is  drained  into  pools  and  cisterns 
from  which  huge  wooden  or  iron  pumps  tower 
above  the  street.  By  means  of  these  the  malodo- 
rous liquid  is  elevated  into  wagon-tanks  to  be 
hauled  away  to  the  fields.  And  this  work  is  usually 
done  by  the  women!  In  fact,  women  are  ac- 
corded equal  privileges  with  a  vengeance  in  this 
part  of  rural  France — they  outnumber  the  men  in 
the  fields  and  no  occupation  appears  too  heavy  or 
degraded  for  them  to  engage  in.  We  see  many  of 
the  older  ones  herding  domestic  animals — or  even 
geese  and  ducks — by  the  roadside.  Sometimes  it 
is  only  a  single  animal — a  cow,  donkey,  goat  or 
pig — that  engages  the  old  crone,  who  is  usually 
knitting  as  well.  The  pigs,  no  doubt  because  of 

54 


ORLEANS  TO  THE  GERMAN  BORDER 

their  headstrong  proclivities,  are  usually  confined 
by  a  cord  held  by  their  keepers,  and  with  one  of 
these  we  have  an  amusing  adventure.  The  pig  be- 
comes unruly,  heading  straight  for  our  car,  and 
only  a  vigorous  application  of  the  brakes  prevents 
disaster  to  the  obstreperous  brute.  But  the  guar- 
dian of  his  hogship — who  has  been  hauled  around 
pretty  roughly  while  hanging  to  the  cord — is  in  a 
towering  rage  and  screams  no  end  of  scathing 
language  at  us.  "You,  too,  are  pigs,"  is  one  of 
her  compliments  which  the  Captain  translates,  and 
he  says  it  is  just  as  well  to  let  some  of  her  remarks 
stand  in  the  original! 

As  we  approach  Remiremont,  where  we  propose 
to  stop  for  the  night,  we  enter  the  great  range  of 
hills  which  form  the  boundary  between  France  and 
Germany  and  which  afford  many  fine  vistas. 
Endless  pine  forests  clothe  the  hillsides  and  deep 
narrow  valleys  slope  away  from  the  road  which 
winds  upward  along  the  edges  of  the  hills. 
Remiremont  is  a  pleasant  old  frontier  town  lying 
along  the  Moselle  River  at  the  base  of  a  fortified 
hill  two  thousand  feet  in  height.  It  is  cleaner 
than  the  average  French  town  of  ten  thousand  and 
clear  streams  of  mountain  water  run  alongside  many 
of  its  streets.  The  Hotel  du  Cheval  de  Bronze 
seems  a  solid,  comfortable  old  inn  and  we  turn  into 

55 


THROUGH  SUMMER  PRANCE 

the  courtyard  for  our  nightly  stop.  The  courtyard 
immediately  adjoins  the  hotel  apartments  on  the 
rear  and  is  not  entirely  free  from  objectionable 
odors — our  only  complaint  against  the  Cheval  de 
Bronze.  Our  rooms  front  on  the  street,  the  noise 
being  decidedly  preferable  to  the  assortment  of 
smells  in  the  rear.  The  town  has  nothing  to  de- 
tain one,  and  is  rather  unattractive,  despite  its  pleas- 
ing appearance  from  a  distance.  On  the  main 
street  near  our  hotel  are  the  arcades,  which  have 
a  considerable  resemblance  to  the  famous  rows  of 
Chester.  i 

We  are  awakened  early  in  the  morning  by  the 
tramp  of  a  large  company  of  soldiers  along  the 
street,  for  Remiremont,  being  so  near  the  frontier, 
is  heavily  garrisoned.  These  French  soldiers  we 
have  seen  everywhere,  in  the  towns  and  on  the 
roads,  enough  of  them  to  remind  us  that  the  country 
is  really  a  vast  military  camp.  They  are  rather 
undersized,  as  a  rule,  and  their  attire  is  often 
slouchy  and  worse  for  wear.  Their  bearing  seems 
to  us  anything  but  soldierly  as  they  shuffle  along 
the  streets.  Perhaps  we  remember  this  the  more 
because  of  the  contrast  we  see  in  Germany  a  little 
later.  A  good  authority,  however,  tells  us  that 
the  French  army  is  in  a  fine  state  of  preparedness 

66 


ORLEANS  TO  THE  GERMAN  BORDER 

and  would  give  a  good  account  of  itself  if  called 
into  action. 

We  are  early  away  from  Remiremont  on  a  fine 
road  winding  among  the  pine-clad  hills.  Some 
sixteen  miles  out  of  the  town  we  find  a  splendid 
hotel  at  Gerardmer  on  a  beautiful  little  lake  of 
the  same  name  in  the  Vosges  Forest,  where  we 
should  no  doubt  have  had  quite  different  service 
from  the  Cheval  de  Bronze.  We  have  no  regrets, 
however,  since  Remiremont  is  worth  seeing  as  a 
typical  small  frontier  town.  At  Gerardmer  we 
begin  the  long  climb  over  the  mountain  pass  which 
crosses  the  German  border;  there  are  several  miles 
of  the  ascent  and  in  some  places  the  grades  are 
steep  enough  to  seriously  heat  the  motor.  We  stop 
many  times  on  the  way  and  there  is  a  clear  little 
stream  by  the  roadside  from  which  we  replenish 
the  water  in  the  heated  engine.  The  air  grows 
cooler  and  more  bracing  as  we  ascend  and  though 
it  is  a  fine  June  day,  we  see  banks  of  snow  along 
the  road.  On  either  side  are  great  pine  trees, 
through  which  we  catch  occasional  glimpses  of 
wooded  hills  and  verdant  valleys  lying  far  beneath 
us.  Despite  the  cool  air,  flowers  bloom  along  the 
road  and  the  ascent,  though  rather  strenuous,  is  a 
delightful  one. 

At  the  summit  we  come  to  the  customs  offices 

57 


THROUGH  SUMMER  FRANCE 

of  the  two  countries,  a  few  yards  apart.  Here 
we  bid  farewell  to  France  and  slip  across  the  border 
into  the  Fatherland,  as  its  natives  so  love  to  call  it. 
A  wonderful  old  official,  who  seems  to  embody 
all  the  dignity  and  power  of  the  empire  he  serves, 
comes  out  of  the  customs  house.  His  flowing  gray 
beard  is  a  full  yard  long  and  the  stem  of  his 
mighty  porcelain  pipe  is  still  longer.  He  is  clad 
in  a  faultless  uniform  and  wears  a  military  cap 
bespangled  with  appropriate  emblems — altogether, 
a  marvel  of  that  official  glory  in  which  the  Germans 
so  delight.  His  functions,  however,  do  not  cor- 
respond with  his  personal  splendor,  for  he  only  of- 
ficially countersigns  our  Royal  Automobile  Club 
passport,  delivers  us  a  pair  of  number  plates  and, 
lastly,  collects  a  fee  of  some  fifteen  marks.  He 
gives  us  a  certificate  showing  that  we  are  now  en- 
titled to  travel  the  highways  of  the  empire  for  two 
weeks,  and  should  we  remain  longer  we  shall  have 
to  pay  an  additional  fee  on  leaving  the  country. 
The  Captain  waves  an  approved  military  adieu,  to 
which  the  official  solemnly  responds  and  we  set  out 
in  search  of  adventure  in  the  land  of  the  Kaiser. 


58 


IV 

COLMAR    TO   OBERAMMERGAU 

Had  we  crossed  a  sea  instead  of  an  imaginary 
dividing  line  we  could  hardly  have  found  a  more 
abrupt  change  in  the  characteristics  of  people  and 
country  than  we  discover  when  we  descend  into 
the  broad  green  valley  of  the  Rhine.  We  have 
a  series  of  fine  views  as  we  glide  down  the  easy 
grades  and  around  the  sweeping  curves  of  the 
splendid  road  that  leads  from  the  crest  to  the 
wide  plain  along  the  river — glimpses  of  towns  and 
villages  lying  far  beneath,  beyond  long  stretches  of 
wooded  hills.  On  our  way  we  meet  peasants 
driving  teams  of  huge  horses  hitched  to  heavy 
logging  wagons.  The  horses  go  into  a  panic  at 
the  sight  of  the  car  and  the  drivers  seem  even  more 
panicky  than  the  brutes;  it  is  quite  apparent  that 
the  motor  is  not  so  common  in  Germany  as  in 
England  and  France. 

The  province  of  Alsace,  by  which  we  enter 
Germany,  was  held  by  France  from  the  time  of 
Napoleon  until  1871,  but  it  never  entirely  lost  its 
German  peculiarities  during  the  French  occupation. 

59 


WE  INVADE  THE  FATHERLAND 

Its  villages  and  farmhouses  are  distinctly  Teutonic, 
though  the  larger  towns  show  more  traces  of  French 
influence.  '  Colmar,  some  twenty  miles  from  the 
border,  is  the  first  city — a  place  of  about  forty 
thousand  people  and  interesting  to  Americans  as 
the  birthplace  of  the  sculptor,  Bartholdi,  who  de- 
signed the  Statue  of  Liberty  in  New  York  Harbor. 
It  is  a  substantially  built  town  with  an  enormous 
Gothic  church  and  its  museum  has  a  famous  col- 
lection of  pictures  by  early  German  masters. 

A  few  miles  from  Colmar  we  come  to  the  Rhine, 
so  famed  in  German  song  and  story,  a  green,  rush- 
ing flood  that  seems  momentarily  to  threaten  the 
destruction  of  the  pontoon  bridge  which  bears  us 
across.  Beyond  the  river  the  level  but  poorly 
surfaced  road  leads  to  Freiburg,  a  handsome  city 
of  about  seventy-five  thousand  people.  It  is  a 
noted  manufacturing  town  and  has  an  ancient  uni- 
versity with  about  two  thousand  students.  Its 
cathedral  is  one  of  the  finest  Gothic  structures  in 
Germany,  the  great  tower,  three  hundred  and  eighty 
feet  in  height,  being  the  earliest  and  most  perfect 
of  its  kind.  The  windows  of  fourteenth-century 
glass  are  particularly  fine  and  there  are  many  re- 
markable paintings  of  a  little  later  date.  The  city 
has  other  important  churches  and  many  beautiful 
public  buildings  and  monuments.  Indeed,  Freiburg 

60 


COLMAR   TO   OBERAMMERGAU 

is  a  good  example  of  the  neatness,  cleanliness  and 
civic  pride  that  prevails  in  most  of  the  larger  Ger- 
man cities.  It  has  many  excellent  hotels  and  we 
have  a  well-served  luncheon  at  the  Victoria.  We 
should  stop  for  the  day  at  Freiburg  were  it  not 
for  our  unexpected  delay  at  Dijon;  we  must  hasten 
if  we  are  to  reach  Oberammergau  in  time  for  our 
reservations.  In  the  three  remaining  daylight  hours 
we  make  a  swift  run  to  Tuttlingen,  some  sixty 
miles  eastward,  passing  several  small  villages  and 
two  good-sized  towns,  Neustadt  and  Donaueschin- 
gen,  on  the  way.  The  latter  is  near  the  head 
waters  of  the  Danube,  and  from  here  we  follow 
the  river  to  Tuttlingen.  We  pass  through  a 
beautifully  wooded  country  and  several  inns  along 
the  way  indicate  that  this  section  is  a  frequented 
pleasure  resort.  There  are  many  charming  pano- 
ramas from  the  road,  which  in  places  swings 
around  the  hillsides  some  distance  above  the 
river. 

Had  we  known  the  fate  in  store  for  us  at 
Tuttlingen,  we  should  surely  have  stopped  at  one 
of  the  hotels  which  we  hastily  passed  in  our  dash 
for  that  town.  But  we  reach  it  just  at  dusk — a 
place  of  about  fifteen  thousand  people — and  turn 
in  rather  dubiously  at  the  unattractive  Post  Hotel. 
If  the  Post  is  a  fair  sample  of  the  country  inns  of 

61 


WE  INVADE  THE  FATHERLAND 

Germany,  the  tourist  should  keep  clear  of  country 
inns  when  possible.  On  entering  we  meet  an  as- 
sortment of  odors  not  especially  conducive  to  good 
appetite  for  the  evening  meal,  and  this  proves  of 
the  kind  that  requires  a  good  appetite.  We  are 
hungry,  but  not  hungry  enough  to  eat  the  Post's 
fare  with  anything  like  relish  and  we  are  haunted 
by  considerable  misgivings  about  the  little  we  do 
consume.  The  Post,  however,  does  not  lack  pat- 
ronage, though  it  seems  to  come  mainly  from  Ger- 
man commercial  men  who  are  seeking  trade  in  the 
thriving  town. 

We  are  away  early  in  the  morning,  following  a 
rough,  neglected  road  some  dozen  miles  to  Lud- 
wigshaven  at  the  head  of  Lake  Constance,  or  the 
Boden  See,  as  the  Germans  style  it.  A  new  high- 
way leading  down  to  the  lake  shore  is  not  yet  open, 
though  nearly  ready,  and  we  descend  over  a  tempo- 
rary road  which  winds  among  tree  stumps  and 
drops  down  twenty  per  cent  grades  for  a  couple  of 
miles.  We  are  thankful  that  we  have  only  the 
descent  to  make;  I  doubt  whether  our  forty-horse 
engine  would  ever  have  pulled  us  up  the  "bank," 
as  a  Yorkshire  man  would  describe  it. 

But  having  reached  the  level  of  the  lake,  we  find 
a  splendid  road  closely  following  the  shore  for  forty 
miles  and  affording  views  of  some  of  the  finest  and 


COLMAR   TO   OBERAMMERGAU 

most  famous  scenery  in  Europe.  In  all  our  journey- 
ings  we  have  had  few  more  glorious  runs.  The 
clear  balmy  June  day  floods  everything  with  light 
and  color.  The  lake  lies  still  and  blue  as  the 
heavens  above,  and  beyond  its  shining  expanse  rise 
the  snow-capped  forms  of  the  Swiss  Alps,  their 
rugged  ranks  standing  sharply  against  the  silvery 
horizon.  At  their  feet  stretches  the  green  line  of 
the  shore  and  above  it  the  dense  shadows  of  the 
pines  that  cover  the  slopes  to  the  snow  line.  It  is 
a  scene  of  inspiring  beauty  that  one  sees  to  best  ad- 
vantage from  the  open  road.  Near  at  hand  green 
fields  stretch  to  the  hills,  no  great  distance  away, 
and  the  belated  fruit-tree  blossoms  load  the  air  with 
perfume.  Hay-making  is  in  progress  in  the  little 
fields — women  swing  the  scythes  or  handle  the 
rakes  and  pitchforks  while  staid  old  cows  draw  the 
heavy,  awkward  carts.  There  are  several  pleasant 
little  towns  along  the  shore,  rather  neater  and  cleaner 
than  the  average  German  village,  though  even  these 
are  not  free  from  occasional  touches  of  filthiness. 
Near  the  center  of  the  lake  is  Friedrichshafen,  a 
popular  resort  with  numerous  hotels.  There  is  a 
beautiful  drive  along  the  lake,  bordered  with  shrubs 
and  trees,  and  fronting  on  this  is  the  comfortable- 
looking  Deutsches  Haus,  surrounded  by  gardens 
which  extend  to  the  shore.  We  remember  the 

63 


WE  INVADE  THE  FATHERLAND 

Deutsches  Haus  particularly,  since  on  its  glass-en- 
closed veranda  we  are  served  with  an  excellent 
luncheon.  As  we  resume  our  journey,  feeling  at 
peace  with  the  world,  and  open  up  a  little  on  the 
smooth  lakeside  road,  the  Captain  exclaims: 

"If  I  had  all  the  money  I  could  possibly  want, 
do  you  know  what  I'd  do?  I'd  just  buy  a  motor, 
don't  you  know,  and  do  nothing  on  earth  but  tour 
about  Europe!" 

And  we  all  agree  that  under  such  conditions  and 
on  such  a  day  his  proposed  vocation  seems  an  ideal 
one. 

Friedrichshafen,  I  should  have  said,  was  the  home 
of  Count  Zeppelin  of  airship  fame,  and  as  we 
passed  through  the  town  his  immense  craft  was  being 
made  ready  for  an  experimental  trip.  It  was  then 
attracting  much  attention  in  Germany  and  was  the 
precourser  of  the  only  line  of  commercial  airships 
now  in  existence. 

LJndau,  a  small  resort  built  on  an  island  about 
three  hundred  yards  from  the  shore,  marks  the 
point  of  our  departure  from  Lake  Constance.  We 
enter  the  town  over  a  narrow  causeway  which  con- 
nects it  with  the  main  road,  but  find  little  to  detain 
us.  We  climb  the  steep  winding  road  leading  out 
of  the  valley  and  for  the  remainder  of  the  day  our 
course  wends  among  the  foothills  of  the  Bavarian 

64 


COLMAR   TO   OBERAMMERGAU 

Alps.  It  proves  a  delightful  run;  we  witness  con- 
stantly changing  displays  of  color  and  glorious  ef- 
fects of  light  and  shadow.  Thunder  storms  are 
raging  in  the  mountains  and  at  intervals  they  sweep 
down  and  envelop  our  road  in  a  dash  of  summer 
rain.  Above  us  tower  the  majestic  Alps;  in  places 
the  dazzling  whiteness  of  the  snow  still  lies  against 
the  barren  rocks  or  amidst  the  dense  green  of  the 
pines,  while  above  the  summits  roll  blue-gray  cumu- 
lus clouds  glowing  with  vivid  lightning  or  brilliant 
with  occasional  bursts  of  sunshine.  Near  at  hand 
stretch  green  meadows  of  the  foothills,  variegated 
with  great  splashes  of  blue  or  yellow  flowers  as 
though  some  giant  painter  had  swept  his  brush 
across  the  landscape.  The  effect  is  shown  with 
striking  fidelity  in  the  picture  by  the  late  John  Mac- 
Whirter  R.  A.  which  I  have  reproduced,  though 
it  is  quite  impossible  on  so  small  a  scale  to  give  an 
adequate  idea  of  the  original  canvas — much  less  of 
the  enchanting  scene  itself. 

Among  the  foothills  and  often  well  up  the 
mountainsides  are  the  characteristic  chalets  of  Tyrol 
and  an  occasional  ruined  castle  crowns  some  seem- 
ingly inaccessible  rock.  We  pass  several  quaint 
little  towns  and  many  isolated  houses,  all  very  dif- 
ferent from  any  we  have  seen  elsewhere.  The 
houses  are  mostly  of  plaster  and  often  ornamented 

65 


WE  INVADE  THE  FATHERLAND 

with  queer  designs  and  pictures  in  brilliant  colors. 
The  people  are  picturesque,  too;  the  women  and 
girls  dress  in  the  peculiar  costume  of  the  country; 
the  men  wear  knitted  jackets  and  knee  pants  with 
silver  buckles  and  their  peaked  hats  are  often  deco- 
rated with  a  feather  or  two. 

Our  road  averages  fair,  though  a  few  short 
stretches  are  desperately  bad — this  unevenness  we 
have  noted  in  German  roads  generally.  In  one  place 
where  the  rain  has  been  especially  heavy  we 
plunge  through  a  veritable  quagmire,  and  we  find 
spots  so  rough  and  stony  as  to  make  very  uncom- 
fortable going.  We  finally  strike  the  fine  highway 
which  follows  the  River  Lech  and  brings  us  into 
the  mountain  town  of  Fussen.  It  is  a  snug  little 
place  of  some  five  thousand  people,  nestling  in  a 
narrow  valley  through  which  rushes  a  swift,  emer- 
ald-green river.  The  Bayerischer-Hof  proves  a 
pleasant  surprise;  one  of  the  cleanest,  brightest  and 
best-conducted  inns  we  have  found  anywhere.  Our 
large,  well-lighted  rooms  afford  a  magnificent  view 
of  the  snow-capped  mountains,  which  seem  only  a 
little  distance  away.  The  landlord,  a  fine-looking, 
full-bearded  native  who  speaks  English  fluently, 
gives  the  touch  of  personal  attention  that  one  so 
much  appreciates  in  the  often  monotonous  round  of 
hotel  life.  To  the  rear  of  the  hotel  is  a  beer-garden 

66 


COLMAR   TO   OBERAMMERGAU 

where  brilliant  lights  and  good  music  in  the  evening 
attract  the  guests  and  townspeople  in  considerable 
numbers.  Several  other  American  motor  parties 
stop  at  the  hotel  and  we  especially  notice  one  French 
car  because  it  carries  nine  people — and  it  is  not  a 
large  car,  either!  The  Bayerischer-Hof  is  first-class 
in  every  particular,  and  we  find  when  we  come  to 
depart  that  the  charges  are  first-class,  too.  The 
Captain  is  exasperated  when  we  are  asked  sixty 
cents  per  gallon  for  "benzin"  and  says  we  will 
chance  doing  better  on  the  way — a  decision  which, 
as  it  happens,  causes  us  no  little  grief  and  some 
expense. 

Fussen  has  an  impressive  Gothic  castle — a  vast, 
turreted,  towered,  battlemented  affair  with  gray 
walls  and  red-tiled  roof  which  looms  over  the 
town  from  the  slope  above  the  river.  I  fear,  though, 
that  the  castle  is  a  good  deal  of  a  sham,  for  there 
are  spots  where  the  stucco  has  fallen  from  the  walls, 
revealing  wooden  lath  beneath,  and  while  in  Fus- 
sen they  call  it  a  "thirteenth-century"  building, 
Baedeker  gives  its  date  as  two  or  three  hundred 
years  later.  It  was  never  intended  as  a  defensive 
structure,  being  originally  built  as  the  residence  of 
the  Bishop  of  Augsburg.  It  is  now  occupied  by 
the  district  court  and  the  interior  is  hardly  worth  a 
visit. 

67 


WE  INVADE  THE  FATHERLAND 

Oberammergau  lies  over  the  mountain  to  the 
east  of  Fussen,  scarcely  ten  miles  away  in  a  direct 
line,  but  to  reach  it  we  are  compelled  to  go  by  the 
way  of  Schongau,  about  four  times  as  far.  We  pur- 
sue a  narrow,  sinuous  mountain  road,  very  muddy 
in  places.  We  have  been  warned  of  one  excep- 
tionally bad  hill — a  twenty-five  per  cent  grade,  ac- 
cording to  the  Royal  Automobile  Club  itinerary — 
but  we  give  the  matter  little  thought.  It  proves  a 
straight  incline  of  half  a  mile  and  about  midway 
the  sharp  ascent  our  motor  gasps  and  comes  to  a 
sudden  stop.  We  soon  ascertain  that  the  angle 
is  too  great  for  the  gasoline  to  flow  from  the  nearly 
empty  tank,  and  we  regret  the  Captain's  economy 
at  Fussen.  A  number  of  peasants  gather  about  us 
to  stare  at  our  predicament,  but  they  show  nothing 
of  the  amusement  that  an  American  crowd  would 
find  in  such  a  situation.  A  woman  engages  the 
Captain  in  conversation  and  informs  us  that  she  is 
the  owner  of  a  good  team  of  horses,  which  will  be 
the  best  solution  of  our  difficulties.  "Wie  viel?" 
Seventy-five  marks,  or  about  eighteen  dollars,  looks 
right  to  her  and  she  sticks  to  her  price,  too.  Her 
only  response  to  the  Captain's  indignant  protests  is 
that  she  keeps  a  road-house  at  the  top  of  the  hill, 
where  he  can  find  her  if  he  decides  we  need  her 
services.  And  she  departs  in  the  lordly  manner  of 

68 


COLMAR    TO   OBERAMMERGAU 

one  who  has  delivered  an  ultimatum  from  which 
there  is  no  appeal.  A  peasant  tells  us  that  the 
woman  makes  a  good  income  fleecing  stranded 
motorists  and  that  the  German  automobile  clubs 
have  published  warnings  against  her.  He  says  that 
a  farmer  near  by  will  help  us  out  for  the  modest 
sum  of  ten  marks  and  offers  to  bring  him  to  the 
scene;  he  also  consoles  us  by  telling  us  that  five 
cars  besides  our  own  have  stalled  on  the  hill  during 
the  day.  The  farmer  arrives  before  long  with  a 
spanking  big  team,  which  gives  us  the  needed  lift, 
and  the  grade  soon  permits  the  motor  to  get  in  its 
work. 

We  reach  Oberammergau  about  two  o'clock, 
only  to  find  another  instance  where  the  Captain's 
economical  tendency  has  worked  to  our  disad- 
vantage. He  had  declined  to  pay  the  price  asked 
by  Cook's  agency  in  London  for  reservation  of 
rooms  and  seats  for  the  Passion  Play  and  had  ar- 
ranged for  these  with  a  German  firm,  Shenker  & 
Co.  at  Freiburg.  On  inquiring  at  the  office  of  the 
concern  in  the  village  we  find  no  record  of  our 
reservations  and  no  tickets  to  be  had.  "Shenker  is 
surely  a  'rotter,'  "  says  the  Captain,  immensely  dis- 
gusted, and  it  requires  no  small  effort  to  find  quar- 
ters, but  we  at  last  secure  tiny  rooms  in  a  peasant's 
cottage  in  the  outskirts  of  the  village.  Tickets  we 

69 


WE  INVADE  THE  FATHERLAND 

finally  obtain  by  an  earnest  appeal  at  Cook's  of- 
fices, though  at  considerable  premium. 

Our  quarters  are  almost  primitive  in  their  plain- 
ness, but  they  are  tolerably  clean;  the  meals,  served 
in  a  large  dining-hall  not  far  away,  are  only  fair. 
The  people  of  Oberammergau,  our  landlord  says, 
face  a  difficult  problem  in  caring  for  the  Passion 
Play  crowds.  These  come  but  once  in  ten  years 
and  during  the  intervening  time  visitors  to  the  town 
are  comparatively  few.  Yet  the  villagers  must  care 
for  the  great  throngs  of  play  years,  though  many 
apartments  and  lodging-houses  must  stand  empty 
during  the  interval  and  the  only  wonder  is  that 
charges  are  so  moderate. 

The  regular  population  of  Oberammergau  is  less 
than  two  thousand,  though  during  the  play  it  pre- 
sents the  appearance  of  a  much  larger  place.  The 
houses  .are  nearly  all  of  the  prevailing  Bavarian 
style,  with  wide,  overhanging  eaves  and  white  walls 
often  decorated  with  brightly  colored  frescoes. 
Through  the  center  of  the  village  rushes  the  Ammer, 
a  clear,  swift  mountain  stream  which  sometimes 
works  havoc  when  flooded.  The  church  is  modern, 
but  its  Moorish  tower  and  rococo  decorations  do 
not  impress  us  as  especially  harmonious  and  there 
is  little  artistic  or  pleasing  in  the  angular  lines  of 
the  new  theatre.  The  shops  keep  open  on  every 

70 


COLMAR   TO   OBERAMMBRGAU 

day  of  the  week,  including  Sunday,  until  nearly 
midnight.  These  are  filled  with  carvings,  pottery, 
postcards  and  endless  trinkets  for  the  souvenir-seek- 
ing tourist  and  perhaps  yield  more  profit  to  the 
town  than  the  play  itself.  There  are  several  good- 
sized  inns,  but  one  has  no  chance  of  lodging  in  'one 
of  them  unless  quarters  have  been  engaged  months 
in  advance — not  very  practicable  when  coming  by 
motor. 

One  will  best  appreciate  the  magnificent  situation 
of  the  village  from  a  vantage-point  on  one  of  the 
mountains  which  encompass  the  wide  green  valley 
on  every  side.  On  the  loftiest  crag  of  all  gleams  a 
tall  white  cross — surely  a  fit  emblem  to  first  greet 
the  stranger  who  comes  to  Oberammergau.  In  the 
center  of  the  vale  is  the  village,  the  clean  white- 
walled  houses  grouped  irregularly  about  the  huge 
church,  which  forms  the  social  center  of  the  place. 
The  dense  green  of  the  trees,  the  brighter  green  of 
the  window-shutters,  the  red  and  gray-tile  roofs  and 
the  swift  river  cleaving  its  way  through  the  town, 
afford  a  pleasing  variety  of  color  to  complete  the 
picture.  The  surrounding  green  pastures  with  the 
herds  of  cattle  are  the  property  of  the  villagers — 
nearly  every  family  of  this  thrifty  community  is  a 
landholder.  The  scene  is  a  quiet,  peaceful  one,  such 

71 


WE  INVADE  THE  FATHERLAND 

as  suits  the  character  of  the  people  who  inhabit  this 
lovely  vale. 

And  these  same  villagers,  simple  and  unpreten- 
tious as  they  are,  will  hardly  fail  to  favorably  impress 
the  stranger.  The  Tyrolese  costume  is  everywhere 
in  evidence  and  there  is  a  large  predominance  of 
full-bearded  men,  for  the  play-actors  are  not  al- 
lowed to  resort  to  wigs  and  false  whiskers.  They 
exhibit  the  peculiarities  of  the  Swiss  rather  than 
the  Germans  and  their  manners  and  customs  are 
simple  and  democratic  in  the  extreme.  While  the 
head  of  the  community  is  nominally  the  burgo- 
master, the  real  government  is  vested  in  the  house- 
holders. The  freedom  from  envy  and  strife  is  in- 
deed remarkable;  quarrels  are  unknown  and  very 
few  of  the  inhabitants  are  so  selfish  as  to  seek  for 
honor  or  wealth.  The  greatest  distinction  that  can 
come  to  any  of  them  is  an  important  part  in  the 
play;  yet  there  is  never  any  contention  or  bitterness 
over  the  allotments.  It  would  be  hard  to  find  else- 
where a  community  more  seriously  happy,  more 
healthful  or  morally  better  than  Oberammergau. 

I  shall  not  write  at  length  of  the  world-famous 
play.  It  has  been  so  well  and  widely  described  that 
I  could  add  but  little  new.  It  is  interesting  as  the 
sole  survival  of  a  vast  number  of  mediaeval  miracle 
plays,  though  it  has  cast  off  the  coarser  features  and 

72 


COLMAR    TO   OBERAMMBRGAU 

progressed  into  a  really  artistic  production.  I  must 
first  of  all  plead  my  own  ignorance  of  the  true 
spirit  and  marvelous  beauty  of  the  play  ere  I  saw 
it.  I  thought  it  the  crude  production  of  a  com- 
munity of  ignorant  peasants  who  were  shrewd 
enough  to  turn  their  religion  into  a  money-making 
scheme  and  I  freely  declared  that  I  would  scarcely 
cross  the  street  to  witness  it.  But  when  the  great 
chorus  of  three  hundred  singers  appeared  in  the 
prelude  that  glorious  Sunday  morning,  I  began  to 
realize  how  mistaken  I  had  been.  And  as  the  play 
progressed  I  was  more  and  more  impressed  with 
its  solemn  sincerity,  its  artistic  staging  and  its 
studied  harmony  of  coloring.  Indeed,  in  the  last 
named  particular  it  brought  vividly  to  mind  the 
rich  yet  subdued  tones  of  Raphael  and  Michael 
Angelo, ,  and  the  effect  of  the  rare  old  tapestries 
one  occasionally  finds  in  the  museums.  The  tab- 
leaux in  many  cases  closely  followed  some  famous 
picture — as  Leonardo  Da  Vinci's  "Last  Supper"  or 
Rubens'  "Descent  from  the  Cross," — all  perfectly 
carried  out  in  coloring  and  spirit.  The  costumes 
were  rich  and  carefully  studied,  giving  doubtless  a 
true  picture  of  the  times  of  Christ.  The  acting  was 
the  perfection  of  naturalness  and  the  crude  and 
ridiculous  features  of  the  early  miracle  plays — and, 
not  so  very  long  ago,  of  the  Passion  Play  itself — 

73 


WE  INVADE  THE  FATHERLAND 

have  been  gradually  dropped  until  scarce  a  trace 
of  them  remains.  The  devil  no  longer  serves 
the  purpose  of  the  clown,  having  altogether  disap- 
peared; and  even  the  tableau  of  Jonah  and  the 
whale,  though  given  in  the  printed  programs,  was 
omitted,  evidently  from  a  sense  of  its  ridiculousness. 
I  found  myself  strangely  affected  by  the  simple  story 
of  the  play.  One  indeed  might  imagine  that  he 
saw  a  real  bit  of  the  ancient  world  were  it  not  for 
the  great  steel  arches  bending  above  him  and  the 
telephone  wires  stretching  across  the  blue  sky  over 
the  stage. 

But  I  think  the  best  proof  of  the  real  human  in- 
terest of  the  play  is  that  it  held  the  undivided  at- 
tention of  five  thousand  spectators  for  eight  long 
hours  on  a  spring  day  whose  perfect  beauty  was  a 
strong  lure  to  the  open  sky.  And  it  did  this  not 
only  for  one  day  but  for  weeks,  later  in  the  sum- 
mer requiring  an  almost  continuous  daily  perform- 
ance. And,  having  seen  it  once,  I  have  no  doubt 
the  greater  number  of  spectators  would  gladly  wit- 
ness it  again,  for  so  great  a  work  of  art  cannot  be 
grasped  from  a  single  performance. 

Of  course  Oberammergau  has  not  escaped  the 
critics,  but  I  fancy  the  majority  of  them  are,  like 
myself  before  our  visit  to  the  town,  quite  ignorant 
of  the  facts  as  well  as  the  true  spirit  of  the  people. 

74 


COLMAR   TO   OBERAMMERGAU 

The  commonest  charge  is  that  the  play  is  a  money- 
making  scheme  on  the  part  of  the  promoters,  but  the 
fact  is  that  the  people  are  poor  and  remain  poor. 
The  actual  profits  from  the  play  are  not  large  and 
these  are  devoted  to  some  public  work,  as  the  new 
theatre,  the  hospital  and  the  good  cause  of  public 
roads.  The  salaries  paid  the  players  are  merely 
nominal,  in  no  case  exceeding  a  few  hundred  marks. 
The  only  source  of  private  profit  comes  from  the 
sale  of  souvenirs  and  the  entertaining  of  visitors,  but 
this  can  not  be  great,  considering  that  the  harvest 
comes  only  once  in  a  decade.  The  play  is  "com- 
mercialized" only  to  the  extent  of  placing  it  on  a 
paying  basis  and  if  this  were  not  the  case  there 
could  be  no  performance.  The  very  fear  of  this 
charge  kept  the  villagers  up  to  1910  from  placing 
their  tickets  and  reservations  in  the  hands  of  Cook 
and  other  tourist  agencies,  though  they  were  finally 
persuaded  to  yield  in  this  as  an  accommodation  to 
the  public.  The  most  effective  answer  to  the  asser- 
tion that  the  chief  end  of  the  play  is  money-making 
may  be  found  in  the  constant  refusal  of  the  villagers 
to  produce  it  elsewhere  than  in  Oberammergau. 
Offers  of  fabulous  sums  from  promoters  in  England 
and  the  United  States  for  the  production  of  the  play 
in  the  large  centers  of  these  countries  have  been 
steadily  refused,  and  the  actors  have  pursued  their 

75 


WE  INVADE  THE  FATHERLAND 

humble  avocations  in  their  quiet  little  town  quite 
content  with  their  meager  earnings.  Nor  have  they 
yielded  to  the  temptation  to  give  the  play  oftener, 
though  it  would  be  immensely  profitable  if  pre- 
sented every  year  or  even  every  alternate  year. 

We  leave  the  little  mountain-girdled  valley  with 
a  new  conception  of  its  Passion  Play  and  its  unique, 
happy  people.  The  majestic  spectacle  we  have 
witnessed  during  our  stay  will  linger  with  us  so  long 
as  life  shall  last  and  it  can  never  be  otherwise  than 
a  pleasant  and  inspiring  memory. 


78 


V 

BAVARIA  AND  THE!  RHINE 

Munich  is  sixty  miles  north  of  Oberammergau 
and  the  road  is  better  than  the  average  of  German 
highways.  For  some  distance  out  of  the  village  we 
pursue  a  winding  course  among  the  mountains, 
which  affords  some  glorious  vistas  of  wooded  vales 
and  snow-capped  Alps  while  we  descend  to  the 
wide  plain  surrounding  Munich.  We  pass  through 
several  sleepy-looking  villages,  though  they  prove 
sufficiently  wide-awake  to  collect  a  toll  of  two  or 
three  marks  for  the  privilege  of  traversing  their 
streets.  A  well-surfaced  highway  bordered  by 
trees  leads  us  into  the  broad  streets  of  Munich, 
where  we  repair  to  the  Continental  Hotel. 

We  remain  here  several  days  and  have  the  op- 
portunity of  closely  observing  the  Bavarian  capital. 
We  unhesitatingly  pronounce  it  the  cleanest,  most 
artistic  and  most  substantial  city  we  have  ever  seen. 
A  number  of  drives  through  the  main  streets  and 
environs  reveal  little  in  the  nature  of  slums;  even 
the  poorest  quarters  of  the  city  are  solidly  built  and 
clean,  and  next  to  its  beautiful  buildings  and  artistic 

77 


WE  INVADE  THE  FATHERLAND 

monuments  the  cleanliness  of  Munich  seems  to  us 
most  noteworthy.  Perhaps  the  ladies  should  be 
given  credit  for  this — not  the  members  of  the  wo- 
men's clubs,  who  are  often  supposed  to  influence 
civic  affairs  for  the  better,  but  the  old  women  who 
do  the  sweeping  and  scrubbing  of  the  streets,  for 
we  see  them  in  every  part  of  the  city.  This  spick- 
and-span  cleanliness  of  the  larger  German  cities 
forms  a  sharp  contrast  to  the  filth  and  squalor  of 
the  villages,  some  of  which  are  even  worse  than  any- 
thing we  saw  in  France — but  of  this  more  anon. 

Munich  has  a  population  of  more  than  a  half 
million,  and  having  been  built  within  the  last  cen- 
tury, is  essentially  modern.  It  has  many  notable 
public  buildings,  mainly  in  the  German  Gothic 
style — the  Rathhaus,  with  its  queer  clock  which 
sets  a  number  of  life-size  automatons  in  motion 
every  time  it  strikes  the  hour,  being  the  most  fa- 
miliar to  tourists.  The  Royal  Palace  and  the  Na- 
tional Theatre  are  splendid  structures  and  the  latter 
is  famous  for  grand  opera,  in  which  the  Germans 
take  great  delight.  Munich  ranks  as  an  important 
art  capital,  having  several  galleries  and  museums, 
among  which  the  Bavarian  National  and  German 
Museum  are  the  most  notable.  There  are  num- 
erous public  gardens  and  parks,  all  kept  with  the 
trim  neatness  that  characterizes  the  entire  city.  And 

78 


BAVARIA  AND  THE  RHINE 

one  must  not  forget  the  beer-gardens,  which  play 
so  large  a  part  in  German  life;  the  whole  population 
frequents  these  open-air  drinking-places,  where  beer 
and  other  refreshments  are  served  at  small  tables 
underneath  the  trees.  The  best  feature  of  these  is 
the  excellent  music  which  is  an  invariable  accom- 
paniment and  Munich  is  famous  for  its  musicians. 
The  most  proficient  of  these  think  it  no  detraction 
to  perform  in  the  beer-gardens,  which  are  attended 
by  the  best  people  of  all  classes;  students,  artists, 
professors,  business  and  military  men  make  up  a 
large  proportion  of  the  patrons  of  these  resorts.  The 
gardens  are  conducted  by  the  big  brewers  and 
Munich  beer  is  famous  the  world  over.  There  is 
comparatively  little  manufacturing  in  the  city,  though 
we  noted  one  exceptionally  large  iron  foundry  and 
a  great  engine  works. 

During  our  stay  we  took  occasion  to  have  our 
car  overhauled  at  a  public  garage  and  were  im- 
pressed with  the  intelligence  and  efficiency  of  the 
German  mechanics.  They  were  usually  large,  fine- 
looking  fellows,  always  good-natured  and  accommo- 
dating. The  wages  paid  them  are  quite  small  as 
compared  with  those  of  American  mechanics,  being 
about  one-third  as  much.  At  four  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon  everything  stops  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
while  the  workmen  indulge  in  a  pot  of  beer  and  a 

79 


WE  INVADE  THE  FATHERLAND 

slice  or  two  of  black  bread.  We  saw  this  in  a 
large  foundry,  where  several  hundred  men  were  em- 
ployed and  were  told  that  the  custom  is  universal. 

The  Captain,  while  admitting  that  most  of  the 
German  workmen  were  very  good  fellows,  often 
treated  them  in  a  supercilious  manner  that  I  fear 
sometimes  worked  against  our  interests.  In  fact, 
the  Captain's  dislike  of  everything  German  was  de- 
cidedly pronounced  and  the  sight  of  a  company  of 
soldiers  usually  put  him  in  an  ill  humor.  "I'll  have 
to  take  a  crack  at  those  fellows  some  time,  myself," 
he  would  say,  in  the  firm  conviction  that  war  be- 
tween England  and  Germany  was  inevitable. 

He  was  not  put  in  a  better  state  of  feeling  to- 
wards our  Teutonic  hosts  when  he  came  to  pay  the 
bill  at  the  Continental.  Through  carelessness  un- 
usual on  his  part,  he  neglected  to  have  an  iron-clad 
understanding  when  he  engaged  accommodations  and 
we  had  to  suffer  in  consequence.  He  made  a  vig- 
orous protest  without  appreciable  effect  on  the 
suave  clerk,  who  assured  us  that  the  rates  of  the 
Continental  were  quite  like  the  laws  of  the  Medes 
and  the  Persians.  They  were  high — yes;  but  only 
persons  of  quality  were  received.  Indeed,  a  prin- 
cess and  a  baroness  were  among  the  guests  at  that 
moment  and  he  hinted  that  many  applicants  were 
turned  away  because  their  appearance  did  not 

80 


BAVARIA  AND  THE-  RHINE 

meet  the  requirements  of  the  Continental.  "We 
just  look  them  over,"  said  the  clerk,  "and  if  we 
don't  like  them  we  tell  them  we  are  full."  All  of 
which  the  Captain  translated  to  us,  though  I  should 
judge  from  his  vehemence  in  replying  to  the  clerk 
that  he  used  some  language  which  he  did  not  re- 
peat— perhaps  it  had  no  equivalent  in  English. 
But  it  was  all  to  no  purpose;  we  paid  the  bill  and 
were  free  to  get  whatever  comfort  we  could  from 
the  reflection  that  we  had  been  fellow-guests  with 
a  princess.  "I  saw  her  one  day,"  said  the  Cap- 
tain. "She  was  smoking  a  cigarette  in  the  parlor 
and  I  offered  her  one  of  mine,  which  she  declined, 
though  she  talked  with  me  very  civilly  for  a  few 
minutes." 

We  start  rather  late  in  the  day  with  Ulm  and 
Stuttgart  as  objective  points.  The  weather  is  fickle 
and  the  numerous  villages  through  which  we  pass 
would  be  disgusting  enough  in  the  sunshine,  but 
they  fairly  reek  in  the  drizzling  rain.  The  streets 
are  inches  deep  in  filth  and  we  drive  slowly  to  avoid 
plastering  the  car — though  the  odors  would  induce 
us  to  hasten  if  it  were  possible.  Along  the  high- 
road stretch  the  low  thatched  cottages;  each  one 
is  half  stable  and  the  refuse  is  often  piled  above  the 
small  windows.  We  dare  not  think  of  our  plight 
if  a  tire  should  burst  as  we  drive  gingerly  along, 

81 


WE  INVADE  THE  FATHERLAND 

but  we  fortunately  escape  such  disaster.  Every- 
where in  these  villages  we  see  groups  of  sturdy  chil- 
dren— "race  suicide"  does  not  trouble  Germany, 
nor  does  the  frightfully  insanitary  conditions  of  their 
homes  seem  to  have  affected  them  adversely.  On 
the  contrary,  they  are  fat,  healthy-looking  rascals 
who — the  Captain  declares — scream  insulting  epi- 
thets at  us.  On  all  sides,  despite  the  rather  inclem- 
ent weather,  we  see  women  in  the  fields,  pulling 
weeds  or  using  heavy,  mattock-shaped  hoes.  We 
even  see  old  crones  breaking  rock  for  road-work  and 
others  engaged  in  hauling  muck  from  the  villages 
to  the  fields.  Men  are  more  seldom  seen  at  work 
— what  their  occupation  is  we  can  only  surmise. 
They  cannot  be  caring  for  the  children,  all  of  whom 
seem  to  be  running  the  streets.  Possibly  they  are 
washing  the  dishes.  But,  facetiousness  aside,  it  is 
probable  that  the  millions  of  young  men  who  are 
compelled  to  do  army  service  for  three  years  leave 
more  work  for  the  women  at  home.  The  railway 
traveler  in  Germany  sees  little  of  the  conditions  I 
have  described  in  these  smaller  villages;  few  of 
them  are  on  the  railroad  and  the  larger  towns  and 
tourist  centers  are  usually  cleanly. 

The  dominating  feature  of  Ulm  is  the  cathedral, 
whose  vast  bulk  looms  over  the  gray  roofs  of  the 
houses  crowding  closely  around  it.  It  is  the  second 

82 


BAVARIA  AND  THE  RHINE 

largest  church  in  Germany  and  has  one  of  the  finest 
organs  in  existence.  The  great  central  spire  is  the 
loftiest  Gothic  structure  in  the  world,  rising  to  a 
height  of  five  hundred  and  twenty-eight  feet,  which 
overtops  even  Cologne.  It  has  rather  a  new  ap- 
pearance, as  a  complete  restoration  was  finished 
only  a  few  years  ago.  The  cathedral  has  made 
Ulm  a  tourist  center  and  this  no  doubt  accounts 
for  the  numerous  hotels  of  the  town.  We  have  a 
very  satisfactory  luncheon  at  the  Munster,  though 
the  charge  startles  us  a  little.  We  cannot  help 
thinking  that  some  of  these  inns  have  a  special 
schedule  for  the  man  with  an  automobile — 
rating  him  as  an  American  millionaire,  who,  accord- 
ing to  the  popular  notion  in  Germany,  is  endowed 
with  more  money  than  brains. 

From  Ulm  we  pursue  a  poor  road  along  the 
River  Fils  to  Stuttgart,  making  slow  progress 
through  the  numerous  villages.  The  streets  are 
thronged  with  children  who  delight  in  worrying  our 
driver  by  standing  in  the  road  until  we  are  nearly 
upon  them.  The  Captain  often  addresses  vigorous 
language  to  the  provoking  urchins,  only  to  be  an- 
swered by  an  epithet  or  a  grimace. 

Stuttgart  is  a  clean,  well-built  city  with  large 
commercial  enterprises.  We  see  several  American 
flags  floating  from  buildings,  for  many  Stuttgart 

83 


WE  INVADE  THE  FATHERLAND 

concerns  have  branches  in  the  States.  It  is  a  fa- 
mous publishing  center  and  its  interest  in  books  is 
evidenced  by  its  splendid  library,  which  contains 
more  than  a  half  million  volumes.  Among  these  is 
a  remarkable  collection  of  bibles,  representing  eight 
thousand  editions  in  over  one  hundred  languages. 
There  are  the  usual  museums  and  galleries  to  be 
found  in  a  German  city  of  a  quarter  of  a  million 
people  and  many  fine  monuments  and  memorials 
grace  the  streets  and  parks.  The  population  is 
largely  Protestant,  which  probably  accounts  for  the 
absence  of  a  church  of  the  first  magnitude.  We 
stop  at  the  old-fashioned  Marquardt  Hotel,  which 
proves  very  good  and  moderate  in  rates. 

The  next  day  we  cover  one  hundred  and  sixty 
miles  of  indifferent  road  to  Frankfort,  going  by  the 
way  of  Karlsruhe,  Heidelberg  and  Darmstadt.  We 
come  across  a  few  stretches  of  modern  macadam, 
but  these  aggregate  an  insignificant  proportion  of 
the  distance.  The  villages  exhibit  the  same  unat- 
tractive characteristics  of  those  we  passed  yesterday. 
Many  have  ancient  cobblestone  pavements  full  of 
chuck-holes;  in  others  the  streets  are  muddy  and 
filthy  beyond  description.  It  is  Sunday  and  the 
people  are  in  their  best  attire;  work  is  suspended 
everywhere — quite  the  opposite  of  what  we  saw 
in  France.  The  country  along  our  route  is  level 

84 


BAVARIA  AND  THEl  RHINE 

and  devoid  of  interest.  From  Karlsruhe  we  follow 
the  course  of  the  Rhine,  though  at  some  distance 
from  the  river  itself.  We  pass  through  several  for- 
ests which  the  government  carefully  conserves — in 
favorable  contrast  with  our  reckless  and  wasteful 
destruction  of  trees  in  America.  There  is  much 
productive  land  along  our  way  and  the  fields  of 
wheat  and  rye  are  as  fine  as  we  have  ever  seen. 
But  for  all  this  the  country  lacks  the  trim,  parklike 
beauty  of  England  and  the  sleek  prosperity  and 
bright  color  of  France. 

Heidelberg,  thirty  miles  north  of  Karlsruhe,  is 
a  town  of  nearly  fifty  thousand  people.  The  uni- 
versity, the  oldest  and  most  famous  school  in  the 
empire,  is  not  so  large  as  many  in  America,  having 
but  sixteen  hundred  students  in  all  departments.  It 
has,  however,  an  imposing  array  of  buildings,  some 
of  these  dating  from  the  fourteenth  century,  when 
the  school  was  founded.  The  town  is  picturesquely 
situated  on  the  Neckar,  which  is  crossed  by  a  high 
bridge  borne  on  massive  arches.  There  is  a  fine 
view  down  the  river  from  this  bridge  and  one  which 
we  pause  to  contemplate.  From  the  bridge  we 
also  get  a  good  view  of  the  town  and  the  ancient 
castle  which  dominates  the  place  from  a  lofty  hill. 
Ruined  castles,  we  have  found,  are  as  rare  in  Ger- 

85 


WE  INVADE  THE  FATHERLAND 

many,  outside  the  Rhine  region,  as  they  are  com- 
mon in  England. 

We  reach  Frankfort  at  dusk,  more  weary  than 
we  have  been  in  many  a  day.  The  roads  have 
been  as  trying  as  any  we  have  traversed  in  Europe 
for  a  like  distance,  and  these,  with  the  cobblestone 
pavements,  have  been  responsible  for  an  unusual 
amount  of  tire  trouble,  which  has  not  tended  to 
alleviate  our  weariness  or  improve  our  tempers. 
The  Carlton  Hotel  looks  good  and  proves  quite  as 
good  as  it  looks.  It  is  the  newest  hotel  in  the  city, 
having  been  opened  within  a  year  by  the  well-known 
Ritz-Carlton  Corporation.  In  construction,  equip- 
ment and  service  it  is  up  to  the  highest  Continental 
standard — with  prices  to  correspond. 

One  would  require  several  days  to  visit  the 
points  of  interest  in  Frankfort,  but  our  plans  do  not 
admit  of  much  leisurely  sightseeing.  It  is  one  of 
the  oldest  of  German  cities,  its  records  running  back 
to  the  time  of  Charlemagne  in  793.  We  shall 
have  to  content  ourselves  with  a  drive  about  the 
principal  streets  and  an  outside  view  of  the  most 
important  buildings.  Chief  among  these  is  the  mag- 
nificent opera  house,  the  railway  station — said  to 
be  the  finest  on  the  Continent — the  library,  the 
Stadel  Museum,  the  "Schauspielhaus,"  or  new 
theatre,  and  the  municipal  buildings.  The  Cathe- 

86 


GOETHE'S  HOUSE-FRANKFORT 


BAVARIA  AND  THE  RHINE 

dral  of  St.  Bartholemew  is  the  oldest  church,  dating 
from  1235,  but  architecturally  it  does  not  rank 
with  Cologne  or  Ulm.  The  interior  has  a  number 
of  important  paintings  and  frescoes.  St.  Peter's, 
the  principal  Protestant  church,  is  of  the  modern 
Renaissance  style  with  an  ornate  tower  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  feet  in  height. 

There  is  one  shrine  in  Frankfort  that  probably 
appeals  to  a  greater  number  of  tourists  than  any 
of  the  monumental  buildings  we  have  named — the 
plain  old  house  where  the  poet  Goethe  was  born 
in  1 749  and  where  he  lived  during  his  earlier  years. 
Goethe  occupies  a  place  in  German  literature  anal- 
ogous only  to  that  of  Shakespeare  in  our  own  and 
we  may  well  believe  that  this  house  is  as  much  ven- 
erated in  the  Fatherland  as  the  humble  structure  in 
Stratford-on-Avon  is  revered  in  England.  It  has 
been  purchased  by  a  patriotic  society  and  restored 
as  nearly  as  possible  to  its  original  condition  and 
now  contains  a  collection  of  relics  connected  with 
the  poet — books,  original  manuscripts,  portraits  and 
personal  belongings.  The  custodian  shows  us  about 
with  the  officiousness  and  pride  of  his  race  and  re- 
lates many  anecdotes  of  the  great  writer,  which  are 
duly  translated  by  the  Captain.  While  it  is  hard 
for  us  to  become  enthusiastic  over  a  German  writer 
about  whom  we  know  but  little,  it  is  easy  to  see 

87 


WE  INVADE  THE  FATHERLAND 

that  the  patriotic  native  might  find  as  much  senti- 
ment in  the  Goethe  house  as  we  did  in  Abbotsford 
or  Alloway. 

It  is  only  a  short  run  from  Frankfort  to  Mayence, 
where  we  begin  the  famous  Rhine  Valley  trip. 
We  pause  for  luncheon  at  the  excellent  Hotel 
d'Angleterre,  which  overlooks  the  broad  river.  The 
city,  declares  Herr  Baedeker,  is  one  of  the  most 
interesting  of  Rheinish  towns  and  certainly  one  of 
the  oldest,  for  it  has  a  continuous  history  from  368, 
at  which  time  Christianity  was  already  flourishing. 
It  figured  extensively  in  the  endless  church  and  civil 
wars  that  raged  during  the  middle  ages,  and  was 
captured  by  the  French  in  1689  and  1792.  After 
the  latter  fall  it  was  ceded  to  France,  which,  how- 
ever, retained  it  but  a  few  years.  Formerly  it  was 
one  of  the  most  strongly  fortified  towns  in  the  king- 
dom, but  its  walls  and  forts  have  been  destroyed, 
though  it  still  is  the  seat  of  a  garrison  of  seventy- 
five  hundred  soldiers.  It  has  a  cathedral  of  first 
importance,  founded  as  early  as  400,  though  few 
traces  of  the  original  building  can  be  found.  A 
notable  feature  is  a  pair  of  bronze  doors  executed 
in  988,  illustrating  historic  events  of  that  time.  But 
the  greatest  distinction  of  Mayence  is  that  Johann 
Gutenberg,  the  father  of  modern  printing,  was  born 
here  near  the  end  of  the  fourteenth  century.  At 

88 


BAVARIA  AND  THE)  RHINE 

least  this  is  the  general  opinion  of  the  savants,  though 
there  be  those  who  dispute  it.  However,  there  is 
no  doubt  that  he  died  in  the  city  about  1468; 
neither  is  it  disputed  that  he  established  his  first 
printing  shop  in  Mayence,  and  did  much  important 
work  in  the  town.  The  famous  Gutenberg  Bible, 
a  copy  of  which  sold  recently  for  $50,000,  wa3 
executed  here  about  1450.  A  bronze  statue  of 
the  famous  printer  by  Thorwaldsen  stands  in  front 
of  the  cathedral. 

The  fifty  or  sixty  miles  between  Mayence  and 
Coblenz  comprise  the  most  picturesque  section  of 
the  Rhine,  so  famous  in  song  and  legend,  and  our 
road  closely  follows  the  river  for  the  whole  dis- 
tance. The  really  impressive  scenery  begins  at 
Bingen,  ten  miles  west  of  Mayence,  where  we  en- 
ter the  Rhine  Gorge.  On  either  side  of  the  river 
rise  the  clifflike  hills — literally  vine-covered,  for  the 
steep  slopes  have  been  terraced  and  planted  with 
vineyards  to  the  very  tops.  Our  road  keeps  to  the 
north  of  the  river  and  is  often  overhung  by  rocky 
walls,  while  far  above  we  catch  glimpses  of  ivy- 
clad  ruins  surmounting  the  beetling  crags.  The 
highway  is  an  excellent  one,  much  above  the  Ger- 
man average.  In  places  it  is  bordered  by  fruit- 
trees — a  common  practice  in  Germany — and  we 
pass  men  who  are  picking  the  luscious  cherries.  So 


WE  INVADE  THE  FATHERLAND 

strong  is  law  and  order  in  the  Fatherland,  we  are 
told,  that  these  public  fruit-trees  are  never  molested 
and  the  proceeds  are  used  for  road  improvement. 
The  day  is  showery,  which  to  some  extent  obscures 
the  scenery,  though  the  changeful  moods  of  light 
and  color  are  not  without  charm.  The  great  hills 
with  their  castles  and  vineyards  are  alternately 
cloud-swept  and  flooded  with  sunlight — or,  more 
rarely,  hidden  by  a  dashing  summer  shower. 

Bingen  has  gained  a  wide  fame  from  the  old 
ballad  whose  melancholy  lilt  comes  quickly  to  one's 
mind — though  we  do  not  find  the  simple  country 
village  we  had  imagined.  It  has  about  ten  thou- 
sand people  and  lies  in  a  little  valley  on  both  sides 
of  the  Nahe,  a  small  river  which  joins  the  Rhine 
at  this  point.  It  is  an  ancient  place,  its  history 
running  back  to  Roman  times.  Slight  remains  of 
a  Roman  fortress  still  exist,  though  the  site  is  now 
occupied  by  Klopp  Castle,  which  was  restored 
from  complete  ruin  a  half  century  ago.  This  castle 
is  open  to  visitors  and  from  its  tower  one  may  look 
down  on  the  town  with  its  gray  roofs  and  huge 
churches. 

From  Bingen  to  Coblenz,  a  distance  of  about 
forty  miles,  the  gorge  of  the  Rhine  is  continuous 
and  we  are  never  out  of  sight  of  the  vine-covered 
hills  and  frequent  ruins.  Nearly  all  the  ruined  cas- 

90 


BAVARIA  AND  THE  RHINE 

ties  of  Germany  center  here  and  we  see  fit  matches 
for  Caerphilly,  Richmond  or  Kenilworth  in  Britain. 
In  this  hurried  chronicle  I  cannot  even  mention  all 
of  these  picturesque  and  often  imposing  ruins, 
though  a  few  may  be  chosen  as  typical. 

A  short  distance  from  Bingen  is  Rheinstein,  orig- 
inally built  about  1270  and  recently  restored  by 
Prince  Henry  as  one  of  his  summer  residences, 
though  he  has  visited  it,  the  custodian  tells  us,  but 
once  in  two  years.  A  wearisome  climb  is  necessary 
to  reach  the  castle,  which  is  some  two  hundred 
and  fifty  feet  above  the  road  where  we  leave  our 
car.  The  mediaeval  architecture  and  furnishings 
are  carried  out  as  closely  as  possible  in  the  restora- 
tion, giving  a  good  idea  of  the  life  and  state  of  the 
old-time  barons.  There  is  also  an  important  collec- 
tion of  armor  and  antiquities  relating  to  German 
history. 

In  this  same  vicinity  is  Ehrenfels,  which  has  stood 
in  ruin  nearly  three  hundred  years.  Its  towers  still 
stand,  proud  and  threatening,  though  the  residen- 
tial portions  are  much  shattered.  Opposite  this  ruin, 
on  a  small  island  in  the  river,  is  the  curious  "Mouse 
Tower,"  where,  legend  asserts,  a  cruel  archbishop 
was  once  besieged  and  finally  devoured  by  an  army 
of  mice  and  rats,  a  judgment  for  causing  a  number 
of  poor  people  to  be  burned  in  order  to  get  rid 

91 


WE  INVADE  THE   FATHERLAND 

of  them  during  a  famine.  But  as  the  bishop  lived 
about  9 1 5  and  the  tower  was  built  some  three  hun- 
dred years  later,  his  connection  with  it  is  certainly 
mythical  and  let  us  hope  the  rest  of  the  story  has 
no  better  foundation.  The  old  name,  Mausturm 
(arsenal),  no  doubt  suggested  the  fiction  to  some 
early  chronicler. 

The  castles  of  Sonneck  and  Falkenburg,  dating 
from  the  eleventh  century,  surmount  the  heights  a 
little  farther  on  our  way.  These  were  strongholds 
of  robber-barons  who  in  the  middle  ages  preyed 
upon  the  river-borne  traffic — their  exploits  forming 
the  burden  of  many  a  ballad  and  tale.  These  gen- 
try came  to  their  just  deserts  about  1300  at  the 
hands  of  Prince  Rudolph,  who  consigned  them  to 
the  gallows  and  destroyed  their  castles.  Sonneck 
is  still  in  ruins,  but  Falkenburg  has  been  restored 
and  is  now  private  property. 

Almost  every  foot  of  the  Rhine  Gorge  boasts 
of  some  supernatural  or  heroic  tale — as  myth-makers 
the  Germans  were  not  behind  their  contemporaries. 
We  pass  the  Devil's  Ladder,  where  the  fiend  once 
aided  an  ancient  knight — no  doubt  on  the  score  of 
personal  friendship — to  scale  the  perpendicular  cliff 
to  gain  the  hand  of  a  "ladye  fair."  A  little  far- 
ther are  the  Lorelei  Rocks,  where  the  sirens  en- 
ticed the  sailors  to  destruction  in  the  rapids  just 

92 


EHRENFELS  ON  THE  RHINE 


BAVARIA  AND  THE}  RHINE 

below.  Quite  as  unfortunate  were  the  seven  vir- 
gins of  Schonburg,  who  for  their  prudery  were 
transformed  into  seven  rocky  pinnacles  not  far  from 
the  Lorelei — and  so  on  ad  infinitum. 

A  volume  would  not  catalog  the  legends  and  su- 
perstitions of  the  Rhine  Gorge.  At  least  the  Cap- 
tain so  declares  and  adds  that  he  knows  a  strange 
story  of  the  Rhine  that  an  old  German  once  told 
him  in  Bingen.  At  our  solicitation  he  repeats  it  as 
we  glide  slowly  along  the  river  road  and  I  have 
thought  it  worth  recasting  for  my  book.  There  will 
be  no  harm  done  if  it  is  skipped  by  the  reader  who 
has  no  taste  for  such  things.  It  is  a  little  after  the 
style  of  several  German  legends  of  ancient  gentry, 
who  sold  themselves  to  the  Evil  One  to  gain  some 
greatly  desired  point — though  I  always  thought 
these  stories  reflected  on  the  business  sagacity  of 
the  Devil  in  making  him  pay  for  something  he  was 
bound  to  get  in  the  end  without  cost.  The  story, 
I  find,  is  long  enough  to  require  a  chapter  of  itself 
and  it  may  appropriately  follow  this. 

There  are  endless  small  towns  along  the  road, 
but  they  are  quite  free  from  the  untoward  condi- 
tions I  have  described  in  the  more  retired  villages 
off  the  track  of  tourist  travel.  Boppard,  St.  Goar 
Oberwesel  and  Bornhofen  are  among  the  number 
and  each  has  its  storied  ruin.  Near  the  last-named 

93 


WE  INVADE  THE  FATHERLAND 

are  the  twin  castles  of  The  Brothers,  with  their 
legend  of  love  and  war  which  the  painstaking  Bae- 
deker duly  chronicles.  Above  St.  Goar  towers  the 
vast  straggling  ruin  of  Rheinfels,  said  to  be  the 
most  extensive  in  Germany,  which  has  stood  in  de- 
cay since  its  capture  by  the  French  in  1797.  It 
crowns  a  barren  and  almost  inaccessible  rock  which 
rises  nearly  four  hundred  feet  above  the  river.  Near 
Boppard  is  Marxburg,  the  only  old-time  castle  which 
has  never  been  in  ruin.  It  has  passed  through  many 
vicissitudes  and  at  present  serves  as  a  museum  of 
ancient  weapons  and  warlike  costumes. 

As  we  approach  Coblenz  we  come  in  sight  of 
the  battlemented  towers  of  Stolzenfels  rising  above 
the  dense  forests  that  cover  the  great  hill  on  which 
it  stands.  The  castle  is  three  hundred  and  ten  feet 
above  the  river,  but  the  plain  square  tower  rises 
one  hundred  and  ten  feet  higher,  affording  a  mag- 
nificent outlook.  The  present  structure  is  modern, 
having  been  built  in  1842  by  the  crown  prince  on 
the  site  of  an  old  castle  destroyed  by  the  French. 
It  now  belongs  to  the  emperor,  who  opens  it  to  vis- 
itors when  he  is  not  in  residence.  It  is  a  splendid 
edifice  and  gives  some  idea  of  the  former  magnifi- 
cence of  the  ruins  we  have  seen  to-day. 

Coblenz,  at  the  junction  of  the  Moselle  and 
Rhine,  appeals  to  us  as  a  stopping-place  and  we 

94 


BAVARIA  AND  THE  RHINE 

turn  in  at  the  Monopol — just  why  I  do  not  know. 
There  are  certainly  much  better  hotels  in  Coblenz 
than  this  old-fashioned  and  rather  slack  place, 
though  it  has  the  redeeming  feature  of  very  mod- 
erate charges.  The  Captain  is  in  very  ill  humor; 
he  has  quarreled  with  an  employe  at  the  garage 
and  as  nearly  as  I  can  learn,  tried  to  drive  the  car 
over  him.  I  feared  the  outraged  Teuton  might 
drop  a  wrench  in  our  gear-box  as  a  revenge  for  the 
rating  the  Captain  gave  him — though,  fortunately, 
we  experience  no  such  misfortune. 

Coblenz  has  about  fifty  thousand  people  and 
while  it  is  a  very  old  city — its  name  indicating  Ro- 
man origin — it  has  little  to  detain  the  tourist.  An 
hour's  drive  about  the  place  will  suffice  and  we 
especially  remember  the  colossal  bronze  statue  of 
Emperor  William  I.,  which  stands  on  the  point  of 
land  where  the  two  rivers  join — a  memorial  which 
Baedeker  declares  "one  of  the  most  impressive  per- 
sonal monuments  in  the  world."  The  equestrian 
figure  is  forty-six  feet  high  and  dominates  the  land- 
scape in  all  directions,  being  especially  imposing 
when  seen  from  the  river.  Just  opposite  Coblenz 
is  the  fortress  of  Ehrenbreitstein,  about  four  hun- 
dred feet  above  the  river.  A  finely  engineered  road 
leads  to  the  fort,  where  a  large  garrison  of  soldiers 
is  stationed.  Visitors  are  admitted  provided  they 

95 


WE  INVADE  THE  FATHERLAND 

can  satisfy  the   officials  that  they   are  not   foreign 
military  men  who  might  spy  out  the  defenses. 

Our  route  as  planned  by  the  Royal  Automobile 
Club  was  to  take  us  from  Coblenz  to  Treves  by 
way  of  the  Moselle  Valley,  but  our  desire  to  see 
the  cathedral  leads  us  to  follow  the  Rhine  road  to 
Cologne.  Mr.  Maroney  of  the  Club  afterwards 
told  me  that  we  made  a  mistake,  since  the  scenery 
and  storied  ruins  of  Moselle  Valley  are  quite  equal 
to  the  Rhine  Gorge  itself.  Cologne  one  can  see 
any  time,  but  the  chance  to  follow  the  Moselle  by 
motor  does  not  come  every  day.  We  are  disap- 
pointed in  the  trip  to  Cologne,  since  there  is  little 
of  the  picturesqueness  and  romantic  charm  that  de- 
lighted us  on  the  previous  day.  The  castle  of 
Drachenfels,  on  a  mighty  hill  rising  a  thousand  feet 
above  the  river,  is  the  most  famous  ruin,  but  we 
do  not  undertake  the  rather  difficult  ascent.  The 
far-reaching  view  from  the  summit  was  celebrated 
by  Byron  in  "Childe  Harold." 

Just  opposite  is  the  ruin  of  Rolandseck,  with  its 
pathetic  legend  of  unrequited  love  and  constancy. 
This  castle,  tradition  says,  was  built  by  Roland,  a 
crusader,  who  returned  to  find  that  his  affianced 
bride  had  given  him  up  as  dead  and  entered  a 
convent.  He  thereupon  built  this  retreat  whence 
he  could  look  down  upon  the  convent  that  impris- 

96 


BAVARIA  AND  THE  RHINE 

oned  the  fair  Hildegund.  When  after  some  years 
he  heard  of  her  death  he  never  spoke  again,  but 
pined  away  until  death  overtook  him  also  a  short 
time  afterwards. 

Midway  we  pass  through  Bonn,  the  university 
town,  a  clean,  modern  city  of  sixty  thousand  peo- 
ple. The  university  was  founded  a  century  ago  and 
has  some  three  thousand  students.  Beethoven  was 
born  in  Bonn  in  1 770,  in  a  house  which  now  con- 
tains a  museum  relating  to  the  great  composer. 

Our  road  keeps  to  the  right  of  the  river,  which 
is  swollen  and  dirty  yellow  from  recent  rains.  We 
pass  many  villages  with  miserable  streets — the  road 
in  no  wise  compares  with  the  one  we  followed  yes- 
terday through  the  Gorge.  Altogether,  the  fifty 
miles  between  Coblenz  and  Cologne  has  little  to 
make  the  run  worth  while. 

We  find  ourselves  in  the  narrow,  crooked  streets 
of  Cologne  well  before  noon  and  are  stopped  by — 
it  seems  to  us — a  very  officious  policeman  who  tells 
us  we  may  proceed  if  we  will  be  careful.  This 
seems  ridiculous  and  the  Captain  cites  it  as  an  ex- 
ample of  the  itching  of  every  German  functionary 
to  show  his  authority,  but  later  we  learn  that  motors 
are  not  allowed  on  certain  streets  of  Cologne  be- 
tween eleven  and  two  o'clock.  Our  friend  the  offi- 
cer was  really  showing  us  a  favor  on  account  of 

97 


WE  INVADE  THE  FATHERLAND 

our  ignorance  in  permitting  us  to  proceed.  We 
direct  our  course  towards  the  cathedral,  which  over- 
shadows everything  else  in  Cologne,  and  the  Savoy 
Hotel,  just  opposite,  seems  the  logical  place  to  stop. 
It  proves  very  satisfactory,  though  it  ranks  well  down 
in  Baedeker's  list. 

Cologne  Cathedral  is  conceded  to  be  the  most 
magnificent  church  in  the  world  and  a  lengthy  de- 
scription would  be  little  but  useless  repetition  of 
well-known  data.  We  find,  however,  that  to  really 
appreciate  the  vastness  and  grandeur  of  the  great 
edifice  one  must  ascend  the  towers  and  view  the 
various  details  at  close  range.  It  is  not  easy  to 
climb  five  hundred  feet  of  winding  stairs,  especially 
if  one  is  inclined  to  be  a  little  short-winded,  but 
the  effort  will  be  rewarded  by  a  better  conception 
of  the  building  and  a  magnificent  view  covering  a 
wide  scope  of  country.  We  are  unfortunate  today 
since  a  gray  mist  obscures  much  of  the  city  beneath 
us  and  quite  shuts  out  the  more  distant  landscape. 
The  great  twin  towers,  which  rise  more  than  five 
hundred  feet  into  the  sky,  were  completed  only  a 
few  years  ago.  In  the  period  between  1842  and 
1880  about  five  million  dollars  was  expended  in 
carrying  out  the  original  plans — almost  precisely  as 
they  were  drawn  by  the  architects  nearly  seven  hun- 
dred years  ago.  The  corner-stone  was  laid  in  1248 

98 


BAVARIA  AND  THE  RHINE 

and  construction  was  carried  forward  at  intervals 
during  the  period  of  seven  centuries. 

Inside,  the  cathedral  is  no  less  impressive  than 
from  the  exterior.  The  vaulting,  which  rises  over 
two  hundred  feet  from  the  floor,  is  carried  by  fifty- 
six  great  pillars  and  the  plan  is  such  that  one's 
vision  may  cover  almost  the  whole  interior  from  a 
single  viewpoint.  It  is  lighted  by  softly  toned  win- 
dows— mostly  modern,  though  a  few  date  from 
the  fourteenth  and  fifteenth  centuries  and,  altogether, 
the  effect  is  hardly  matched  by  any  other  church  in 
Christendom. 

We  make  no  attempt  to  see  the  show-places  of 
Cologne  during  our  stay — it  would  require  a  week 
to  do  this  and  we  shall  have  to  come  again.  An 
afternoon  about  the  city  gives  us  some  idea  of  its 
monuments  and  notable  buildings  as  well  as  glimpses 
of  the  narrow  and  often  quaint  streets  of  the  old 
town.  The  next  day  we  are  away  for  Treves  and 
Luxemburg  before  the  "verboten"  hour  for  motor 
cars. 

If  we  missed  much  fine  scenery  in  the  Moselle 
Valley  by  coming  to  Cologne,  the  loss  is  partly 
atoned  for  by  the  country  we  see  to-day  and  the 
unusually  excellent  roads.  Our  route  as  far  as 
Treves  runs  a  little  west  of  south  and  diverges  some 
seventy-five  miles  from  the  Rhine.  It  is  through  a 

99 


WE  INVADE  THE  FATHERLAND 

high,  rolling  country,  often  somewhat  sterile,  but 
we  have  many  glorious  views  from  the  upland  roads. 
There  are  long  stretches  of  hills  interspersed  with 
wooded  valleys  and  fields  bright  with  yellow  gorse 
or  crimson  poppies.  There  are  many  grain-fields, 
though  not  so  opulent-looking  as  those  we  saw  in 
the  Rhine  Valley,  and  we  pass  through  tracts  of 
fragrant  pine  forest,  which  often  crowd  up  to  the 
very  roadside.  There  are  many  long  though  usually 
easy  climbs,  and  again  we  may  glide  downward  a 
mile  or  more  with  closed  throttle  and  disengaged 
gears.  Much  of  the  way  the  roadside  is  bordered 
with  trees  and  the  landscapes  remind  us  more  of 
France  than  any  we  have  so  far  seen  in  Germany. 
We  pass  but  two  or  three  villages  in  the  one  hun- 
dred and  ten  miles  between  Cologne  and  Treves; 
there  are  numerous  isolated  farmhouses,  rather 
cleaner  and  better  than  we  have  seen  previously. 
We  stop  at  a  country  inn  in  the  village  of  Prun  for 
luncheon,  which  proves  excellent — a  pleasant  sur- 
prise, for  the  inn  is  anything  but  prepossessing  in 
appearance.  The  guests  sit  at  one  long  table  with 
the  host  at  the  head  and  evidently  the  majority  are 
people  of  the  village.  Beer  and  wine  are  served 
free  with  the  meal  and  some  of  the  patrons  imbibe 
an  astonishing  quantity.  This  seems  to  be  the  uni- 
versal custom  in  the  smaller  inns;  in  the  city  hotels 

100 


BAVARIA  AND  THE  RHINE 

wine  comes  as  an  extra — no  doubt  somewhat  of  a 
deterrent  on  its  free  use. 

Treves — German  Trier — is  said  to  be  the  oldest 
town  in  Germany.  The  records  show  that  Chris- 
tianity was  introduced  here  as  early  as  314  and 
the  place  was  important  in  ecclesiastical  circles 
throughout  the  middle  ages.  We  have  a  splendid 
view  of  the  town  from  the  hills  as  we  approach;  it 
lies  in  the  wide  plain  of  the  Moselle  and  its  red 
sandstone  walls  and  numerous  towers  present  a 
very  striking  appearance.  The  cathedral,  though 
not  especially  imposing,  is  one  of  the  oldest  of 
German  churches — portions  of  it  dating  from  528 
and  the  basilica  now  used  as  a  Protestant  church  is 
a  restored  Roman  structure  dating  from  306.  But 
for  all  its  antiquity  Treves  seems  a  pleasant,  up-to- 
date  town  with  well-paved  streets — a  point  which 
never  escapes  the  notice  of  the  motorist.  The  sur- 
rounding hills  are  covered  with  vineyards  and  the 
wine  trade  forms  one  of  the  principal  enterprises  of 
the  place. 

A  few  miles  from  Treves  we  enter  the  Grand 
Duchy  of  Luxemburg,  an  independent  country, 
though  part  of  the  German  Zollverein,  which  no 
doubt  makes  our  touring  license  and  number-plates 
pass  current  here.  It  is  a  tiny  state  of  no  more 
than  a  thousand  square  miles,  though  it  has  a  quar- 
101 


WE  INVADE  THE  FATHERLAND 

ter  million  people.  Luxemburg,  where  we  decide 
to  stop  for  the  night,  is  the  capital.  The  Grand 
Hotel  Brasseur  looks  good,  though  the  service 
proves  rather  slack  and  the  "cuisine"  anything  but 
first-class.  Luxemburg  is  a  delight — partly  due  to 
its  peculiar  and  picturesque  situation,  but  still  more 
to  the  quaint  buildings  and  crooked,  narrow  streets 
of  the  older  parts  and  the  shattered  walls  and  watch- 
towers  that  still  encircle  it.  The  more  modern  por- 
tion of  the  town — which  has  but  twenty  thousand 
inhabitants — is  perched  on  a  rocky  tableland,  three 
sides  of  which  drop  almost  precipitously  for  about 
two  hundred  feet  to  small  rivers  beneath.  The 
hotels  and  principal  business  houses  are  on  the 
plateau,  but  the  older  parts  of  the  town  are  wedged 
in  the  narrow  valleys.  These  are  spanned  by  sev- 
eral high  bridges,  from  one  of  which  we  have  a 
delightful  viewpoint.  It  is  twilight  and  the  gray 
houses  are  merging  into  the  shadows,  but  the  stern 
towers  and  broken  walls  on  the  heights  fling  their 
rugged  forms  more  clearly  than  ever  against  the 
wide  band  of  the  sunset  horizon.  These  are  the 
remnants  of  the  fortifications  which  were  condemned 
to  destruction  by  the  Treaty  of  London  in  1876, 
which  guaranteed  the  neutrality  of  the  Grand 
Duchy.  Only  the  obsolete  portions  of  the  defenses 
were  permitted  to  stand  and  these  add  wonderfully 
102 


BAVARIA  AND  THE  RHINE 

to  the  romantic  beauty  of  the  town.  Indeed,  the 
wide  panoramas  of  valley  and  mountain,  of  bare, 
beetling  rock  and  trim  park  and  garden,  groups  of 
old  trees,  huge  arched  viaducts  and  the  ancient 
fortifications,  form  one  of  the  most  striking  scenes 
we  have  witnessed  on  the  Continent.  It  evidently 
so  impressed  the  poet  Goethe,  about  one  hundred 
years  ago,  for  a  graphic  description  of  Luxemburg 
may  be  found  in  his  writings.  So  charming  is  the 
scene  that  we  linger  until  darkness  quite  obliterates 
it  and  return  to  our  inn  feeling  that  Luxemburg  has 
more  of  real  attractiveness  than  many  of  the  tourist- 
thronged  cities. 


103 


VI 

THE   CAPTAIN'S    STORY 

Friedrich  Reinmuth  had  always  been  an  un- 
settled and  discontented  youth;  if  his  days  were 
sad  he  complained  because  they  were  so  and  if 
they  were  prosperous  he  still  found  fault.  It  was 
not  strange  that,  being  of  such  a  nature,  he  should 
already  have  tried  many  vocations,  although  yet  a 
young  man.  At  the  time  of  my  story  he  had  be- 
come a  soldier,  and  while  he  often  fretted  and 
chafed  under  the  rigor  of  military  discipline,  he  did 
not  find  it  easy  to  shift  from  its  shackles  as  had 
been  his  wont  in  other  occupations. 

By  chance  he  formed  a  friendship  with  an  old 
and  grizzled  comrade,  who,  although  he  had 
served  almost  two  score  years  in  the  army,  was 
still  hale  and  strong.  The  old  man  had  been  in 
the  midst  of  numberless  desperate  engagements  but 
had  always  come  out  of  the  fray  unscathed.  Queer 
stories  were  whispered  about  him  among  his  soldier 
companions,  but  only  whispered,  for  it  was  be- 
lieved, and  with  reason,  that  he  would  take  sum- 
mary vengeance  on  anyone  who  crossed  his  path. 

104 


THE   CAPTAIN'S    STORY 

He  had  murdered  his  own  brother  in  a  fit  of  fury, 
and  to  him  was  also  imputed  the  assassination  of 
the  Baron  of  Reynold,  who  rebuked  the  fiery- 
tempered  man  on  some  trifling  point;  but  he  had 
never  been  brought  to  justice  for  any  of  his  crimes. 
There  was  a  vague  rumor  that  Gottfried  Winstedt 
had  sold  himself  to  the  devil  in  return  for  the 
power  to  resist  all  mortal  weapons  and  to  escape 
all  human  justice — this  it  was  that  made  him  in- 
vulnerable in  battle  and  shielded  him  from  the 
wrath  of  the  law. 

But  Friedrich  in  his  association  with  this  man 
for  the  space  of  two  months  had  noted  little  extra- 
ordinary about  him.  He  never  guessed  why  the 
veteran  broke  an  habitual  reserve  to  become  his  com- 
panion until  one  night  when  they  were  conversing 
on  the  eve  of  battle.  As  they  sat  moodily  together 
by  a  waning  camp-fire  the  older  man,  who  had 
been  even  more  morose  than  usual  during  the  day, 
broke  the  silence.  In  a  melancholy  voice  he  said: 

"I  have  somewhat  to  tell  you  now,  for  before 
the  set  of  tomorrow's  sun  I  will  be — God  in 
Heaven,  where  will  I  be? — but  let  it  pass;  I  dare 
not  think  of  it.  My  life  has  been  one  of  un- 
paralleled wickedness;  I  have  committed  crimes  the 
very  recital  of  which  would  appall  the  most  hard- 
ened criminal  in  the  Kingdom,  but  I  would  not 

105 


WE  INVADE  THE  FATHERLAND 

recite  them  to  you  if  I  could,  for  what  would  avail 
the  monotonous  story  of  vice  and  bloodshed  for 
which  there  is  no  repentance?  You  have  heard  the 
rumors  that  these  accursed  fools  have  whispered  of 
me — I  will  not  say  whether  they  be  true  or  no. 
But  long  foreseeing — yes,  foreknowing  my  fate — 
I  have  sought  for  someone  in  whom  I  might  con- 
fide. I  was  drawn  toward  you — I  hardly  know 
why — yet  I  dare  not  wholly  trust  in  you.  Upon 
one  condition,  nevertheless,  I  will  commit  to  you 
something  of  vast  and  curious  importance." 

Friedrich  in  his  amazement  was  silent  and  the 
veteran  brought  forth  from  the  folds  of  his  faded 
cloak  a  small  sandalwood  box,  which  he  held 
toward  the  young  man. 

"I  would  have  you  swear,"  he  said,  "by  all  you 
hold  sacred  that  you  will  never  open  this  casket 
except  on  one  condition;  it  is  that  you  should  so 
desire  some  earthly  thing — wealth,  fame,  love — 
that  you  are  willing  to  barter  your  eternal  welfare 
to  secure  it." 

Something  in  the  old  man's  manner  as  well  as 
his  words  aroused  in  Friedrich  a  feeling  akin  to 
fear.  He  took  the  required  oath,  mentally  resolving 
that  he  would  throw  the  mysterious  casket  in  the 
river  on  the  first  opportunity. 

"Now  leave  me  instantly;  I  shall  never  see  you 
106 


THE   CAPTAIN'S   STORY 

again  in  this  world  and  even  I  am  not  so  fiendish  as 
to  wish  to  see  you  in  my  next — but  hark  ye,  if  you 
ever  break  the  seal  out  of  idle  curiosity  I  will  re- 
turn from  the  grave  to  avenge  myself  on  you." 

Startled  by  the  old  man's  vehemence,  Friedrich 
hastened  to  his  quarters  and  strove  to  sleep.  But 
the  strange  event  of  the  evening  and  thoughts  of  the 
morrow's  conflict,  with  its  danger  and  perhaps 
death,  drove  slumber  from  his  eyes.  He  tossed 
about  his  barrack  until  the  long  roll  summoned  his 
regiment  to  the  field  of  battle.  The  fight  raged 
fiercely  and  long,  and  toward  evening  Friedrich  fell, 
seriously  wounded. 

It  was  many  weeks  before  he  was  able  to  be  on 
his  feet  again  and  finding  himself  totally  unfitted  by 
his  wound  for  the  profession  of  arms — and,  in  fact, 
for  any  active  occupation — he  sadly  returned  to  his 
native  town  on  the  Rhine.  Here  it  chanced  there 
was  an  old  portrait  painter  of  some  little  renown 
who  took  a  liking  to  the  unfortunate  young  soldier 
and  proposed  that  he  study  the  art;  and  Friedrich 
applied  himself  with  such  diligence  in  his  new  vo- 
cation that  before  long  he  far  excelled  his  master. 
Things  went  prosperously  with  him.  His  fame 
spread  beyond  the  borders  of  his  native  town  and 
came  to  the  ears  of  many  of  the  noble  families  of 
the  vicinity.  He  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  pat- 

107 


WE  INVADE  THE  FATHERLAND 

ronized  by  some  of  these  and  he  transferred  the 
beauty  of  many  a  haughty  dame  and  fair  damsel 
to  his  canvas  with  unvarying  success.  Indeed,  it  is 
said  that  more  than  one  of  his  fair  clients  looked 
languishingly  at  the  young  artist,  whose  skill  and 
fame  made  much  amends  for  humble  birth. 

But  Friedrich  boasted  that  he  gazed  upon  the 
fairest  of  them  unmoved.  Ambitious  and  free- 
hearted, he  thought  himself  impervious  to  the  wiles 
of  love — a  frame  of  mind  he  declared  indispensible 
tc  his  art.  His  success  brought  him  gold  as  well 
as  fame  and  but  one  achievement  was  needed  to 
complete  his  triumphs — the  patronage  of  the  Her- 
wehes,  the  noblest  and  wealthiest  of  all  the  great 
families  within  leagues  of  the  town.  True,  the 
baron  and  his  son  were  away  at  present,  engaged  in 
the  war  that  still  distracted  the  land,  but  the  lady 
and  her  daughter  were  at  home  in  the  magnificent 
castle  which  surmounted  an  eminence  far  above 
the  Rhine,  in  full  view  against  the  sky  from  the 
window  of  the  artist's  studio.  The  fact  that  the 
Herwehes  withheld  their  countenance  from  him  was 
a  sore  obstacle  in  the  way  of  Friedrich's  ambitions; 
their  influence  extended  to  every  class,  and  many 
lesser  lights,  professedly  imitators  of  the  noble  fam- 
ily, followed  their  example  even  in  trivial  matters. 

Great  was  the  young  artist's  satisfaction  when 
108 


THE   CAPTAIN'S    STORY 

one  afternoon  two  ladies  descended  from  a  coach 
(bearing  the  Herwehe  coat-of-arms)  which  paused 
in  the  street  before  his  studio.  Both  were  veiled, 
but  Friedrich  had  no  doubt  that  his  visitors  were 
the  baroness  and  her  daughter,  whose  patronage  he 
so  earnestly  desired.  When  both  were  seated  the 
elder  woman,  throwing  aside  her  veil,  revealed  a 
face  that  had  lost  little  of  its  youthful  charm,  and 
with  a  tone  of  haughty  condescension  said: 

"I  have  seen  some  of  your  portraits,  Master 
Reinmuth,  and  was  pleased  with  them.  I  wish 

you,  regardless  of  time  and  cost,  to  paint  my  daugh- 

»» 
ter. 

By  this  time  Friedrich  had  to  some  extent  over- 
come his  trepidation  and  with  a  profound  courtesy 
replied, 

"I  shall  be  happy  to  serve  you,  My  Lady,  if 
you  will  be  good  enough  to  indicate  the  time  and 
place  for  the  sittings." 

"Elsa,  dearest,  what  are  your  wishes?"  asked 
the  mother,  and  in  a  voice  whose  tremulous  sweet- 
ness thrilled  the  painter,  the  young  woman  replied: 

"Let  it  be  at  the  castle,  my  dear  mother,  to- 
morrow at  this  time.  I  would  rather  not  come  to 
the  studio,  for  I  dread  the  ride  over  the  rough 
mountain  road." 

109 


WE  INVADE  THE  FATHERLAND 

"I  will  be  at  your  service,  My  Lady,"  answered 
Friedrich,  and  his  visitors  departed  without  delay. 

Friedrich  marveled  that  his  thoughts  for  the  re- 
mainder of  the  day — and  much  of  the  night — 
should  revert  to  the  demure  little  figure  whose  voice 
had  so  moved  him.  Fame  bespoke  her  the  fairest 
of  the  fair,  but  it  never  entered  his  imaginings  that 
he,  a  humble  portrait  painter,  could  think  of  the 
daughter  of  such  an  illustrious  line  but  as  one  of  a 
different  order  of  beings  from  himself.  He  had 
never  thought  seriously  of  love;  his  mistress,  he 
averred,  had  been  fame.  True,  he  had  in  idle 
moments  dreamed  of  a  being  that  he  might  madly 
adore — and,  alas  for  him,  his  fancy  had  become 
embodied  in  human  form.  But  why  had  this 
maiden  so  affected  him?  She  had  not  lifted  her 
veil  and  had  spoken  but  once,  and  if  her  bearing 
were  dignified  and  her  form  graceful,  he  had  seen 
many  others  no  less  charming  in  these  respects  nor 
thought  of  them  a  second  time.  If  he  had  analyzed 
his  feelings  he  would  probably  have  said  that  the 
unusual  impression  was  due  to  the  recognition  of  his 
talent  by  the  Herwehes. 

The  appointed  hour  on  the  morrow  found  him 

following  the  footpath  which  led  to  the  castle  gate 

— a    much    shorter    though    steeper  way  than  the 

coach  road.     Intent  as  he  was  on  his  mission,  he 

110 


THE    CAPTAIN'S    STORY 

could  not  but  pause  occasionally  to  view  the  won- 
derful scene  that  spread  out  beneath  him.  The 
cliff  on  which  the  many-towered  old  castle  stood 
almost  overhung  the  blue  waters  of  the  Rhine, 
which  here  run  between  rocks  of  stupendous  height. 
A  little  farther  down  the  valley,  but  in  full  view 
from  his  splendid  vantage-point,  were  vineyard- 
terraced  hills  interspersed  with  wooded  ravines  and 
luxuriant  meadows.  The  magic  touch  of  early 
autumn  was  over  it  all — a  scene  of  enchanting 
beauty.  On  the  opposite  cliff  was  an  ancient  ruin 
(now  entirely  vanished)  and  Friedrich  recalled 
more  than  one  horrible  tale  about  this  abandoned 
place  that  had  blanched  his  youthful  cheeks.  At 
his  feet  lay  the  gray  roofs  and  church  spires  of  his 
native  town  and  perhaps  a  shadow  of  a  thought 
of  the  renown  he  would  one  day  bring  to  it  flitted 
through  his  mind — for  on  such  an  errand  and  such 
a  day  what  could  limit  his  ambitious  musings? 

He  soon  found  himself  at  the  castle  gate  and 
was  admitted  by  the  keeper,  who  knew  of  his 
coming.  He  was  ushered  into  a  magnificent  apart- 
ment and  told  to  await  the  Lady  Elsa's  arrival — 
and  the  servant  added  that  the  baroness  was  absent, 
having  gone  that  morning  to  Coblenz  to  join  her 
husband. 

Friedrich,  in  the  few   moments   he  waited,    en- 
Ill 


WE  INVADE  THE  FATHERLAND 

deavored  to  compose  himself,  though  feelings  of 
anxiety  and  curiosity  strove  with  his  efforts  at  in- 
difference; but  when  the  oaken  door  swung  softly 
open  and  his  fair  client  stood  before  him,  he  started 
as  though  he  had  seen  an  apparition.  Indeed,  it 
flashed  on  him  at  once  that  all  the  perfection  he 
had  imagined,  all  the  beauty  of  which  he  had 
dreamed,  stood  before  him  in  the  warm  tints  of 
life,  though  to  his  heated  fancy  she  seemed  more 
than  a  being  of  flesh  and  blood.  In  truth,  the 
kindly  eyes,  the  expressive  and  delicately  moulded 
face,  the  flood  of  dark  hair  that  fell  over  shapely 
shoulders,  the  slender  yet  gracefully  rounded  form, 
and,  more  than  all,  that  certain  nameless  and  in- 
describable something  that  makes  a  woman  beauti- 
ful— did  not  all  these  proclaim  her  almost  more 
than  mortal  to  the  over-wrought  imagination  of  the 
young  visionary? 

"Are  you  ill?"  were  her  first  words  when  her 
quick  eye  caught  the  ghastly  pallor  of  the  artist's 
face  and  the  bewildered  look  that  possessed  it. 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice  he  strove  desperately 
to  regain  his  composure.  "No,  not  ill,"  he  said. 
"I  still  suffer  from  a  wound  I  received  in  the  army 
and  the  climb  up  the  mountainside  somewhat  over- 
taxed my  strength." 

112 


THE   CAPTAIN'S    STORY 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  replied.  "Had  I  known,  I 
would  gladly  have  come  to  the  studio." 

The  look  of  sympathetic  interest  with  which  she 
accompanied  her  words  was  a  poor  sedative  to  the 
already  overmastering  passions  of  the  artist,  but 
by  a  supreme  effort  he  recovered  himself  to  say: 

"No,  no;  it  is  better  that  I  do  not  pass  so  much 
of  my  time  there.  I  have  applied  myself  too  closely 
of  late.  Are  you  ready,  lady,  for  the  sitting?" 

"Yes,"  said  she.  "I  have  been  preparing  for 
you.  Follow  me."  She  led  the  way  through  sev- 
eral magnificent  apartments  to  one  even  more  splen- 
did than  the  rest.  "In  this  room,"  she  continued, 
"I  would  have  the  portrait  painted,  and  as  a  set- 
ting can  you  not  paint  a  portion  of  the  room  itself?" 

Friedrich  assented  in  an  absent  manner  and  tak- 
ing up  his  palette  was  about  to  give  his  fair  sub- 
ject directions  to  seat  herself  to  the  best  advantage 
when  he  saw  she  had  already  done  so,  with  a  pose 
and  expression  that  might  have  delighted  even  a 
dispassionate  artist's  eye — if,  indeed,  any  eye  could 
gaze  dispassionately  on  the  Lady  Elsa  Herwehe. 
She  had  arranged  the  drapery  of  her  dull-red  silken 
robe  so  as  to  display  to  the  best  advantage — and 
yet  not  ostentatiously — the  outlines  of  her  graceful 
figure,  and  her  dark  hair  fell  in  a  shadowy  mass 
over  her  shoulders.  Her  face  bore  a  listless  and 

113 


WE  INVADE  THE  FATHERLAND 

far-away  expression — was  it  natural,  or  only  as- 
sumed for  artistic  effect?  Friedrich  knew  not,  but 
it  made  her  seem  superhuman.  The  artist  took  up 
his  brush  but  his  brain  reeled  and  his  hand  trembled. 

"You  are  surely  ill,"  exclaimed  Lady  Elsa  and 
would  have  called  a  servant,  but  a  gesture  from 
Friedrich  detained  her. 

"No,  lady,  I  am  not  ill" — and  losing  all  control 
of  himself  he  went  madly  on — "but  I  cannot  paint 
the  features  of  an  angel.  O,  Lady  Elsa,  if  it  were 
the  last  words  I  should  utter  I  must  declare  that  I 
love  you.  The  moment  I  saw  you  a  tenfold  fury 
seized  my  soul.  I  never  loved  before  and  I  cannot 
stem  the  torrent  now.  O,  lady,  the  difference  be- 
tween our  stations  in  life  is  wide — but,  after  all,  it 
may  soon  be  otherwise;  I  have  talent  and  the  world 
will  give  me  fame.  This  love  in  a  day  has  become 
my  life  and  what  is  mere  breath  without  life?  If 
you  scorn  me  my  life  is  gone" — 

The  Lady  Elsa,  who  was  at  first  overcome  by 
astonishment,  recovered  herself  to  interrupt  him. 
"Peace,  you  foolish  babbler,"  cried  she.  "You 
came  to  paint  my  likeness,  not  to  make  love  to 
me.  If  you  cannot  do  your  task,  cease  your  use- 
less vaporings  and  depart.  Think  you  the  daughter 
of  an  historic  line  that  stretches  back  to  Hengist  could 
throw  herself  away  on  a  poor  portrait  painter,  the 
114 


THE   CAPTAIN'S    STORY 

son  of  an  ignorant  peasant?      Take  you  to  your 
business  or  leave  me." 

To  Friedrich  every  word  was  a  dagger-thrust. 
He  seemed  about  to  reply  when — as  awakening 
from  a  dreadful  dream — he  rushed  from  the  apart- 
ment and  fled  in  wild  haste  down  the  stony  path 
to  the  town.  Locking  himself  in  his  studio  he 
threw  himself  on  the  couch  in  an  ecstacy  of  despair 
and  passed  the  greater  part  of  the  night  in  sleepless 
agony.  From  sheer  exhaustion  he  fell  into  a 
troubled  slumber  towards  morning — if  such  a  hide- 
ous semi-conscious  state  may  be  called  slumber. 
In  his  dream  he  saw  a  host  of  demons  and  in  their 
midst  a  veiled  figure  at  the  sight  of  which  his  heart 
leaped,  for  it  seemed  the  Lady  Elsa.  She  ap- 
proached and  offered  him  her  hand,  veiled  beneath 
the  folds  of  her  robe;  when  he  had  clasped  it  he 
stood  face  to  face,  not  with  the  lady  of  his  love, 
but  with  the  sin-hardened  and  sardonic  features  of 
Gottfried  Winstedt,  the  old  soldier-comrade  whose 
dreadful  fate  he  had  forgotten!  With  a  wild  start 
he  awoke  and  his  thoughts  immediately  flashed  to 
the  strange  casket  the  old  man  had  given  him.  The 
words  of  that  anomaly  of  a  man  came  to  him  with 
an  awful  significance:  "When  thou  shalt  so  desire 
some  earthly  thing  that  thou  wouldst  barter  thine 

115 


WE  INVADE  THE  FATHERLAND 

eternal  welfare  to  secure  it,  thou  mayest  open  this 
casket." 

Fearing  that  his  curiosity  might  some  time  over- 
come him  and  dreading  the  threat  of  old  Gottfried, 
he  had  buried  the  casket  in  a  lonely  spot  and  quite 
forgotten  it.  His  dream  recalled  it  to  his  memory 
at  a  time  when  no  price  would  be  too  great  to  pay 
for  the  love  of  Elsa  Herwehe.  He  sprang  from 
his  couch  and  hastened  to  the  secluded  corner  of 
his  father's  garden,  where  he  had  buried  the  mys- 
terious casket  in  a  wrapping  of  coarse  sack-cloth. 
Returning  to  his  room  and  carefully  barring  the 
doors  he  opened  the  box  with  little  difficulty.  It 
contained  a  roll  of  manuscript  and  a  single  sheet  of 
yellow  parchment.  Friedrich  unrolled  this  and  a 
small  scrap  of  paper  fell  at  his  feet.  It  bore  these 
words  in  faded  red  letters: 

"Thou  who  art  willing  to  bear  the  consequence, 
read;  the  incantation  on  the  parchment,  if  repeated 
in  a  solitary  spot  at  midnight,  will  bring  the  pres- 
ence of  the  Prince  of  Evil,  though  thou  canst  not 
know  the  meaning  of  the  words.  He  will  give 
thee  thy  desire  at  the  price  of  thy  soul.  But  beware 
— thou  hast  yet  the  power  to  recede." 

Friedrich  read  these  words  with  a  strange  fasci- 
nation, nor  did  the  solemn  warning  in  the  slightest 
degree  alter  his  purpose  to  seek  a  conference  with 
116 


THE   CAPTAIN'S    STORY 

the  enemy.  The  parchment  bore  but  a  single 
verse  in  a  strange  language,  and  the  artist  thrust 
it  in  his  bosom  with  a  feeling  of  triumph.  A  glance 
at  the  manuscript  showed  it  the  story  of  Gottfried 
Winstedt's  life,  which  he  contemptuously  flung  into 
the  grate,  saying: 

"What  care  I  for  the  doings  of  the  brutal  old 
fool?  To-night  I  will  seek  the  old  ruin  across  the 
Rhine  which  stands  opposite  the  Herwehe  estate — 
my  future  estate,  perchance;  no  one  will  interrupt 
my  business  there!"  And  he  laughed  a  mirthless 
laugh  that  startled  even  himself,  for  a  hoarse  echo 
seemed  to  follow  it;  was  it  the  Fiend  or  the  ghost 
of  Gottfried  Winstedt  who  mocked  him? 

Meanwhile,  the  Lady  Elsa  sat  in  her  chamber 
overcome  with  surprise  at  the  actions  of  the  artist; 
annoyed  and  angry,  yet  half  pitying  him,  for  he 
was  a  gallant  young  fellow,  sure  to  gain  the  world's 
applause — and  what  woman  ever  found  it  in  her 
heart  to  wholly  condemn  the  man  who  truly  loves 
her?  She  ordered  a  servant  to  restore  to  Friedrich 
his  painting  utensils  which  he  had  left  in  his  preci- 
pitate flight,  but  the  man  returned  saying  he  could 
not  gain  admittance  to  the  studio  and  had  left  his 
charge  at  the  door. 

The  following  day — the  same  on  which  Fried- 
rich  had  recovered  the  fatal  casket — the  baroness 

117 


WE  INVADE  THE  FATHERLAND 

returned  from  Coblenz,  accompanied  by  her  eldest 
son.  She  inquired  as  to  the  progress  of  the  por- 
trait and  Elsa  in  a  half  careless,  yet  melancholy 
tone  told  her  all  and  even  expressed  pity  for  the 
poor  artist.  But  the  haughty  noblewoman  was 
highly  incensed  at  the  presumption  of  the  young 
painter  and  Heinrich,  the  son,  who  was  present, 
flew  into  an  uncontrollable  fury  and  swore  by  all 
he  considered  holy  that  the  knave's  impudence 
should  be  punished.  Snatching  his  sword  he  left 
the  castle  in  a  great  rage.  Elsa  called  to  him  to 
desist,  but  her  words  were  unheeded.  She  then 
appealed  to  her  mother:  "Will  you  permit  the 
rash  boy  to  leave  in  such  a  passion?  You  know 
his  fiery  temper  and  he  may  do  that  which  will 
cause  him  grave  trouble." 

"I  will  not  hinder  him,"  replied  the  baroness. 
"Let  him  chastise  the  churl  for  his  presumption;  if 
we  do  not  make  an  example  of  someone,  the  vil* 
lage  tanner  will  next  seek  your  hand." 

"And  if  he  did,  would  I  need  hear  his  suit") 
Why  give  farther  pain  to  the  poor  artist,  who  is 
already  in  deepest  distress?" 

"I  shall  half  believe  you  heard  his  suit  with 
favor  if  you  urge  more  in  his  defense,"  said  the 
mother  petulantly,  and  Elsa,  who  knew  her  moods, 
sighed  and  was  silent. 

118 


THE   CAPTAIN'S    STORY 

Meanwhile  the  wrathful  young  nobleman  pressed 
on  towards  the  town.  The  sun  had  already  far 
declined  and  flung  his  low  rays  on  the  broad  river 
till  it  seemed  a  stream  of  molten  gold.  The  red 
and  yellow  hues  of  early  autumn  took  on  a  brighter 
glow  and  the  town,  the  distant  vineyards  and  the 
wooded  vales  lay  in  hazy  quietude.  But  little  of 
this  beauty  engaged  the  mind  of  Heinrich  Herwehe 
as  he  bounded  down  the  mountain  path.  As  he 
brooded  over  the  insult  to  his  sister  his  anger,  in- 
stead of  cooling,  increased  until  the  fury  of  his  pas- 
sion was  beyond  his  control.  In  this  mood  he 
came  to  the  outskirts  of  the  town  where,  to  his  in- 
tense satisfaction,  he  saw  the  artist  approaching. 
Friedrich  was  hastening  toward  the  river  and  would 
have  taken  no  notice  of  the  young  baron,  whom  he 
quite  failed  to  recognize.  But  he  was  startled  by 
a  fierce  oath  from  Heinrich,  who  exclaimed: 

"Ha,  you  paltry  paint-dauber,  draw  and  de- 
fend yourself  or  I  will  stab  you  where  you  stand." 

"Fool,"  replied  the  astonished  artist,  "who  are 
you  that  thus  accosts  me  on  the  highroad  ?" 

"That  matters  not;  defend  yourself  or  die/'  And 
with  these  words  the  impetuous  young  nobleman 
rushed  upon  the  object  of  his  wrath.  But  Fried- 
rich  was  no  insignificant  antagonist;  he  had  served 
in  the  army  and  had  acquired  the  tricks  of  sword- 

119 


WE  INVADE  THE  FATHERLAND 

play,  and  for  a  contest  that  required  a  cool  indif- 
ference to  life  or  death,  his  mood  was  far  the  better 
of  the  two.  Little  caring  what  his  fate  might  be 
and  without  further  words  he  coolly  met  the  on- 
slaught of  his  unknown  enemy.  Such  was  Hein- 
rich's  fury  that  he  quite  disregarded  caution  in  his 
desire  to  overcome  an  opponent  whom  he  despised. 
Such  a  contest  could  not  be  of  long  duration.  In  a 
violent  lunge  which  the  artist  avoided,  the  noble- 
man's foot  slipped  on  the  sward  and  he  was  trans- 
fixed by  his  adversary's  rapier.  With  scarce  a 
groan  he  expired  and  Friedrich,  hardly  looking  at 
his  prostrate  foe,  exclaimed: 

"You  fool,  you  have  brought  your  fate  upon 
yourself!"  and,  as  he  sheathed  his  sword,  added, 
"Who  you  were  and  why  you  did  so  set  upon 
me  I  cannot  conceive,  but  it  matters  not;  I  doubt 
not  that  the  confessor  to  whom  I  go  will  readily 
absolve  me  from  this  deed." 

He  pursued  his  lonely  way  to  the  river's  edge, 
where  he  stepped  into  a  small  boat  and  as  he 
moved  from  the  shore  he  muttered,  "O,  Elsa, 
Elsa,  he  who  would  give  an  earthly  life  for  love 
might  be  counted  a  madman;  what  then  of  one 
who  seeks  to  barter  eternity  for  thee?"  He  soon 
reached  the  opposite  bank  of  the  river  and  began 
the  steep  ascent  to  the  ruined  castle.  He  beheld, 
120 


THE    CAPTAIN'S    STORY 

in  the  gathering  twilight,  the  same  romantic  scenes 
that  had  so  thrilled  him  but  two  days  ago  and 
could  scarce  believe  himself  the  same  man.  Dark- 
ness was  rapidly  gathering  and  by  the  time  he 
reached  the  ruin  the  last  glow  of  sunset  had  faded 
from  the  sky.  He  crossed  the  tottering  bridge  over 
the  empty  moat  and  entered  the  desolate  courtyard. 
Here,  in  the  uncertain  gloom  of  the  lonely  ruin,  he 
must  wait  the  coming  of  midnight  and  wear  away 
as  best  he  could  the  ghostly  monotony  of  the  pass- 
ing hours.  But  his  purpose  was  fixed;  his  despera- 
tion had  been  only  increased  by  the  events  of  the 
day,  and  seating  himself  on  a  fragment  of  the  wall 
he  determined  to  endure  whatever  came.  He  heard 
the  great  cathedral  bell  of  the  distant  town  toll  hour 
after  hour  and  when  midnight  drew  near  he  un- 
falteringly entered  the  vast  deserted  hall  of  state. 
Here  he  lighted  his  small  lamp,  whose  feeble  beams 
struggled  fitfully  with  the  shadows  of  the  huge 
apartment.  He  drew  forth  the  parchment — he  had 
not  mustered  courage  to  look  at  it  since  morning — 
and  as  the  last  stroke  of  the  great  bell  died  in  the 
gloom,  he  muttered  the  strange  language  of  the  in- 
cantation. Suddenly  there  came  a  rushing  sound 
as  of  a  gust  of  wind,  which  extinguished  his  lamp, 
and,  forgetting  that  he  must  repeat  the  fatal  words, 
he  let  the  parchment  fall.  The  wind  whiffed  it 

121 


WE  INVADE  THE  FATHERLAND 

he  knew  not  whither.  No  visible  shape  came  before 
him,  but  in  a  moment  he  felt  the  awful  pres- 
ence and  a  voice  sepulchral  and  stony  came  out 
of  the  darkness: 

"Mortal,  who  art  thou  that  dost  thus  summon 
me?  What  wilt  thou?" 

Sick  with  terror  and  yet  determined  even  to 
death,  Friedrich  answered:  "And  knowest  thou 
not?  Men  speak  thee  omniscient.  But  I  can  tell 
thee  of  my  hopeless  love — " 

"Nay,  I  know  all,"  continued  the  voice.  "Re- 
light thy  lamp  and  I  will  tell  thee  how  thou  mayst 
gain  thy  desire." 

Trembling,  Friedrich  obeyed  and  looked  wildly 
about,  expecting  the  visible  form  of  the  Fiend,  but 
he  saw  nothing.  Yet  he  felt  the  horrid  pres- 
ence and  knew  that  his  awful  visitant  was  near 
at  hand. 

From  out  of  the  darkness  a  heavy  iron-clasped 
book  fell  at  his  feet  and  the  voice  continued:  "Open 
a  vein  and  sign  thy  name  in  the  book  with  blood." 

Friedrich  with  changeless  determination  obeyed 
and  the  book  disappeared. 

"Take  this  gold,"  said  his  dreadful  monitor,  and 

a  heavy  bag  fell  at  the  artist's  feet  with  a  crash, 

"and  I  will  give  thee  graces  to  win  the  fair  one's 

heart.     Repeat  the  incantation  that  I  may  depart." 

122 


THE  CAPTAIN'S    STORY 

For  the  first  time  since  it  had  disappeared  Fried- 
rich  thought  of  the  fatal  parchment  and  in  an  agony 
of  horror  remembered  that  it  was  gone.  He  would 
have  rushed  from  the  castle  but  the  power  of  the 
presence  held  him  immovable. 

"Fiend,"  he  shrieked,  "where  is  the  parchment? 
Thou  knowest;  tell  me,  in  God's  name!" 

"Fool,  tenfold  fool,  dost  thou  call  on  my  arch- 
enemy to  adjure  me?  The  parchment  is  naught  to 
me;  it  was  thy  business  to  guard  it.  I  can  wait 
till  day-break  when  I  must  depart,  and  with  me 
thou  must  go." 

"Fiend,"  he  shrieked,  "where  is  the  parchment? 
I  adjure  thee" — but  the  voice  was  silent  and  the 
mighty  power  still  chained  its  victim  to  the  spot. 
It  were  useless  to  follow  the  blasphemous  ravings  of 
the  unfortunate  youth,  who  cursed  God  and  human- 
kind as  well  as  the  enemy  until  the  first  ray  of  the 
rising  sun  darted  through  the  crumbling  arches, 
when  the  inexorable  power  smote  him  dead  and 
doubtless  carried  his  spirit  to  the  region  of  the 
damned. 

Herwehe  Castle — and,  indeed,  the  whole  town 
and  countryside — was  in  a  wild  uproar  on  the  fol- 
lowing morning.  The  young  nobleman  had  been 
found  murdered,  sword  in  hand,  and  all  knew 
from  the  wailing  mother  the  mission  on  which  he 

123 


WE  INVADE  THE  FATHERLAND 

had  set  out  the  evening  before.  Friedrich  was 
missing  and  was  instantly  accused  as  the  murderer. 
Companies  of  furious  retainers  and  villagers  scoured 
the  countryside  until  at  last  a  party  searching  the 
old  ruin  found  the  object  of  their  wrath.  He  lay 
dead  upon  the  floor  of  the  ancient  hall  of  state 
with  only  an  extinguished  lamp  near  him  and,  to 
their  amazement,  a  bag  of  gold. 

Various  theories  were  advanced  concerning  him 
and  his  death.  The  commonly  accepted  one  was 
that  he  had  stolen  the  gold  and  murdered  the  young 
nobleman  and,  being  struck  with  remorse,  had  ended 
his  life  with  some  subtle  poison.  But  none  ever 
knew  the  real  fate  of  the  poor  artist  save  his  old 
father,  who  guessed  it  from  reading  the  manuscript 
of  Gottfried  Winstedt,  which  he  found  uncon- 
sumed  in  the  grate  of  his  son's  studio. 


124 


VII 

A  PLIGHT  THROUGH   THE  NORTH 

Twenty  miles  from  Luxemburg  we  come  to  the 
French  border,  where  we  must  pay  another  fee  to 
the  German  official  who  occupies  a  little  house  by 
the  roadside  and  who  takes  over  the  number-plates 
which  we  received  on  entering  Germany.  The 
French  officer,  a  little  farther  on,  questions  us  per- 
functorily as  to  whether  we  have  anything  dutiable; 
we  have  purchased  only  a  few  souvenirs  and  trink- 
ets in  Germany  and  feel  free  to  declare  that  we 
have  nothing.  We  suppose  our  troubles  with  the 
customs  ended  and  the  Captain,  who  purchased 
several  bottles  of  perfume  in  Cologne — the  French 
are  strongly  prejudiced  against  German  perfumes — 
rests  easier.  But  in  Longwy,  a  small  town  four  or 
five  miles  from  the  border,  another  official  profes- 
sing to  represent  the  customs  stops  us  and  is  much 
more  insistent  than  the  former,  though  after  open- 
ing a  hand-bag  or  two  and  prying  about  the  car 
awhile,  he  reluctantly  permits  us  to  proceed.  And 
this  is  not  all,  for  at  the  next  town  a  blue-uniformed 
dignitary  holds  us  up  and  declares  he  must  go 
125 


THROUGH    SUMMER    FRANCE 

through  our  baggage  in  search  of  contraband  articles. 
A  lengthy  war  of  words  ensues  between  this  new 
interloper  and  the  Captain,  who  finally  turns  to  us 
and  says: 

"This  fellow  insists  that  if  we  do  not  give  him  a 
list  of  our  purchases  in  Germany  and  pay  duty, 
cur  baggage  will  be  examined  in  the  next  town 

and  if  we  are  smuggling  anything  we'll  have  to  go 

•  *i »» 
to  jail. 

This  is  cheerful  news,  but  our  temper  is  roused 
by  this  time  and  we  flatly  refuse  to  give  any  infor- 
mation to  our  questioner  or  to  permit  him  to  ex- 
amine our  baggage.  He  leaves  us — with  no  very 
complimentary  remarks,  the  Captain  says — and  we 
make  as  quick  a  "get-away"  as  possible.  We  keep 
a  sharp  look-out  in  the  next  two  or  three  villages, 
but  are  not  again  troubled  by  the  minions  of  the 
law.  We  begin  to  suspect  that  the  officers  were 
simply  local  policemen  who  were  trying  to  frighten 
us  into  paying  a  fee,  and  we  are  still  of  this  opinion. 

After  crossing  the  border  we  follow  a  splendid 
road  leading  through  a  rather  uninteresting  country 
and  a  succession  of  miserable  villages,  a  description 
of  which  would  be  no  very  pleasant  reading.  Suf- 
fice it  to  say  that  their  characteristics  are  the  same 
as  those  of  similar  villages  we  have  already  written 

126 


A  FLIGHT   THROUGH    THE   NORTH 

about — if  anything,  they  are  dirtier  and  uglier. 
They  are  all  small  and  unimportant,  Montmedy,  the 
largest,  having  only  two  thousand  inhabitants  and 
a  considerable  garrison.  This  section  was  the  scene 
of  some  of  the  great  events  of  the  war  of  1 870-7 1 . 
About  noon  we  come  to  Sedan,  which  gave  its 
name  to  the  memorable  battle  if,  indeed,  such  a 
one-sided  conflict  can  be  called  a  battle.  The 
Germans  simply  corralled  the  French  army  here 
with  about  as  much  ease  as  if  it  were  a  flock  of 
sheep — but  the  Captain  insists  they  would  have  no 
such  "walk-away"  to-day.  The  ancient  inn — 
bearing  the  pretentious  name  of  Hotel  de  la  Croix 
d'Or — where  we  have  lunch,  endeavors  to  charge 
one  franc  "exchange"  on  an  English  sovereign, 
thereby  arousing  the  Captain's  ire,  not  so  much  on 
account  of  the  extortion  as  for  the  presumption  in 
questioning  an  English  gold-piece,  which  ought  to 
pass  current  wherever  the  sun  shines.  He  indig- 
nantly seeks  a  bank  and  tells  down  French  coin  to 
the  landlord,  along  with  his  compliments  delivered 
in  no  very  conciliatory  tone.  Sedan  is  an  old  and 
untidy  town  of  about  twenty  thousand  people  and 
aside  from  its  connection  with  the  famous  battle 
has  little  to  interest  the  tourist. 

Our  route  along  the  river  Meuse  between  Sedan 
and  Mezieres  takes  us  over  much  of  the  battlefield, 

127 


THROUGH  SUMMER  FRANCE 

but  there  is  little  to-day  to  remind  one  of  the 
struggle.  Out  of  Sedan  the  road  is  better — a  wide, 
straight,  level  highway  which  enables  us  to  make 
the  longest  day's  run  of  our  entire  tour.  The 
country  improves  in  appearance  and  becomes  more 
like  the  France  of  Orleans  and  Touraine.  The  day, 
which  began  dull  and  hazy,  has  cleared  away  beau- 
tifully and  the  flood  of  June  sunshine  shows  Sum- 
mer France  at  its  best.  From  the  upland  roads 
there  are  far-reaching  views,  through  ranks  of 
stately  trees,  of  green  landscapes,  flaming  here  and 
there  with  poppy-fields  or  glowing  with  patches  of 
yellow  gorse.  The  country  is  trim  and  apparently 
well-tilled;  the  villages  are  better  and  cleaner  and 
the  road  a  very  dream  for  the  motorist.  At  Guise 
there  is  a  ruined  castle  of  vast  extent,  its  ancient 
walls  still  encircling  much  of  the  town.  Guise  was 
burned  by  the  English  under  John  of  Hanehault  in 
1339,  but  the  redoubtable  John  could  not  force 
the  surrender  of  the  castle,  which  was  defended  by 
his  own  daughter,  the  wife  of  a  French  nobleman 
then  absent. 

So  swift  is  our  progress  over  the  fine  straight  road 
that  we  find  ourselves  in  the  streets  of  St.  Quentin 
while  the  sun  is  yet  high,  but  a  glance  at  our  odom- 
eter tells  us  we  have  gone  far  enough  and  we  turn 
in  at  the  Hotel  de  France  et  d'Angleterre.  It  is 
128 


A  FLIGHT   THROUGH    THE    NORTH 

evidently  an  old  house  and  every  nook  and  corner 
is  cumbered  with  tawdry  bric-a-brac — china,  statu- 
ettes, candlesticks  and  a  thousand  and  one  articles 
of  the  sort.  Our  apartments  are  spacious,  with 
much  antique  furniture,  and  the  high-posted  beds 
prove  more  comfortable  than  they  look.  Mirrors 
with  massive  gilt  frames  stare  at  us  from  the  walls 
and  heavy  chandeliers  hang  from  the  ceilings.  The 
price  for  all  this  magnificence  is  quite  low,  for  St. 
Quentin  is  in  no  sense  a  tourist  town  and  hotel 
rates  have  not  yet  been  adjusted  for  the  infrequent 
motorist.  The  hotel  is  well-patronized,  apparently 
by  commercial  men,  who  make  it  a  rather  lively 
place.  The  meals  are  good  and  the  servants  prompt 
and  attentive — superior  in  this  respect  to  many  of 
the  pretentious  tourist-thronged  hotels. 

There  is  nothing  to  keep  us  in  St.  Quentin;  in 
the  morning  we  start  out  to  drive  about  the  town, 
but  the  narrow,  crooked  streets  and  miserable  cob- 
ble pavements  soon  change  our  determination  and 
we  inquire  the  route  to  Amiens.  It  chances  that 
the  direct  road,  running  straight  as  an  arrow  be- 
tween the  towns,  is  undergoing  repairs  and  we  are 
advised  to  take  another  route.  I  cannot  now  trace 
it  on  the  map,  but  I  am  sure  the  Captain  for  once 
became  badly  mixed  and  we  have  a  good  many 
miles  of  the  roughest  going  we  found  in  Europe. 

129 


THROUGH  SUMMER  PRANCE 

We  strike  a  stretch  of  the  cobblestone  "pave" 
which  is  still  encountered  in  France  and  ten  miles 
per  hour  is  about  the  limit.  These  roads  are  prob- 
ably more  than  a  hundred  years  old.  They  are 
practically  abandoned  except  by  occasional  peas- 
ants' carts  and  their  roughness  is  simply  indescrib- 
able. As  it  chances,  we  have  a  dozen  miles  of  this 
"pave"  before  we  reach  the  main  road  and  we  are 
too  occupied  with  our  troubles  to  look  at  the  country 
or  note  the  name  of  the  one  wretched  village  we 
pass. 

Once  in  the  broad  main  highway,  however,  we 
are  delighted  with  the  beauty  and  color  of  the 
country.  We  pass  through  wide,  unfenced  fields 
of  grain,  interspersed  with  the  ever-present  poppies 
and  blue  cornflowers  and  from  the  hills  we  catch 
glimpses  of  the  distant  river.  Long  before  we  come 
to  Amiens — shall  I  say  before  we  come  in  sight  of 
the  city? — we  descry  the  vast  bulk  of  the  cathedral 
rising  from  the  plain  below.  The  surrounding  city 
seems  but  a  soft  gray  blur,  but  the  noble  structure 
towers  above  and  dominates  everything  else  until 
we  quite  forget  that  there  is  anything  in  Amiens 
but  the  cathedral.  We  soon  enter  an  ancient-look- 
ing city  of  some  ninety  thousand  people  and  make 

the  mistake  of  choosing  the  Great  Hotel  d'la  Uni- 
130 


A  PLIGHT  THROUGH   THE   NORTH 

vers,  for,  despite  its  pretentious  name,  it  is  dingy 
and  ill-arranged  and  the  service  is  decidedly  slack. 

Amiens  Cathedral  is  one  of  the  greatest  churches 
of  Europe,  though  the  low  and  inharmonious  towers 
of  the  facade  detract  much  from  the  dignity  of  the 
exterior.  Nor  does  the  high  and  extremely  slender 
central  spire  accord  well  with  the  general  style  of 
the  building.  The  body  of  the  cathedral,  divested 
of  spire  and  towers,  would  make  a  fit  match  for 
Cologne,  which  it  resembles  in  plan  and  dimensions, 
but  it  has  a  more  ancient  appearance,  having  under- 
gone little  change  in  six  centuries.  The  delicate 
sculptures  and  carvings  are  stained  and  weather- 
worn, but  they  present  that  delightful  color  toning 
that  age  alone  can  give.  Inside,  a  recent  writer  de- 
clares, it  is  "one  vast  blaze  of  light  and  color  com- 
ing not  only  from  the  clerestory  but  from  the  glazed 
triforium  also,  the  magnificent  blue  glass  typifying 
the  splendor  of  the  heavens" — a  pleasing  effect,  on 
the  whole,  though  the  flood  of  softly  toned  light 
brings  out  to  disadvantage  the  gaudy  ornaments  and 
trinkets  of  the  private  chapels  so  common  in  French 
cathedrals.  Ruskin  advises  the  visitor,  no  matter 
how  short  his  time  may  be,  to  devote  it,  not  to  the 
contemplation  of  arches  and  piers  and  colored  glass, 
but  to  the  woodwork  of  the  chancel,  which  he  con- 
siders the  most  beautiful  carpenter  work  of  the  so- 

131 


THROUGH  SUMMER  FRANCE 

called  Flamboyant  period.  There  is  also  a  multi- 
tude of  sculptured  images,  some  meritorious  wall 
frescoes,  and  several  stained-glass  windows  dating 
from  the  thirteenth  century.  At  the  rear  is  a  statue 
of  Peter  the  Hermit,  for  the  monk  who  started  the 
great  crusading  movement  of  the  middle  ages  was 
a  native  of  Amiens. 

All  of  these  things  we  note  in  a  cursory  manner; 
we  recognize  that  the  student  might  spend  hours, 
if  not  days,  in  studying  the  details  of  such  a  mighty 
structure.  But  such  is  not  our  mood;  the  truth  is, 
we  are  a  little  tired  of  cathedrals  and  are  not  sorry 
that  Amiens  is  the  last  for  the  present.  What  an 
array  we  have  seen  in  our  month's  tour:  Rouen, 
Orleans,  Tours,  Dijon,  Nevers,  Ulm,  Mayence, 
Cologne,  Amiens — not  to  mention  a  host  of  lesser 
lights.  We  have  had  a  surfeit  and  we  shall  doubt- 
less be  able  to  better  appreciate  what  we  have  seen 
after  a  period  of  reflection,  which  will  also  bring 
a  better  understanding  to  our  aid  should  we  resume 
our  pilgrimage  to  these  ecclesiastical  monuments. 

There  is  little  besides  the  cathedral  to  detain 
the  tourist  in  Amiens,  unless,  indeed,  he  should  be 
fortunate  enough  to  be  able  to  go  as  leisurely  as  he 
likes.  Then  he  would  see  the  Musee,  which  has 
a  really  good  collection  of  pictures  and  relics,  or 
the  library,  which  is  one  of  the  best  in  French  pro- 
132 


A  FLIGHT  THROUGH   THE   NORTH 

vincial  towns.  There  are  some  quaint  old  houses 
along  the  river  and  many  odd  corners  to  delight 
the  artistic  eye.  John  Ruskin  found  enough  to 
keep  him  in  Amiens  many  days  and  to  fill  several 
pages  in  his  writings.  But  it  would  take  more  than 
all  this  to  delay  us  now  when  we  are  so  near  the 
English  shores.  If  we  leave  Amiens  early  enough 
we  may  catch  the  noon  Channel  boat — we  ought 
to  cover  the  ninety  miles  to  Boulogne  in  three  or 
four  hours.  But  we  find  the  main  road  to  Abbe- 
ville closed  and  lose  our  way  twice,  which,  with 
two  deflated  tires,  puts  our  plan  out  of  question. 
Much  of  the  road  is  distressingly  rough  and  there 
are  many  "canivaux"  to  slacken  our  speed.  We 
soon  decide  to  take  matters  easily  and  cross  the 
Channel  on  the  late  afternoon  boat. 

The  picturesque  old  town  of  Abbeville  was  one 
of  John  Ruskin's  favorite  sketching  grounds.  We 
pass  the  market-place,  which  is  surrounded  by  an- 
cient houses  with  high-pitched  gables  colored  in 
varied  tints  of  gray,  dull-blue  and  pale-green.  The 
church  is  cited  by  Ruskin  as  one  of  the  best  exam- 
ples of  Flamboyant  style  in  France,  though  the  dif- 
ferent parts  are  rather  inharmonious  and  of  un- 
equal merit.  Abbeville  was  held  by  the  English 
for  two  hundred  years  and  the  last  possession,  ex- 
cept Calais,  to  be  surrendered  to  France.  Here 

133 


THROUGH  SUMMER  FRANCE 

in  1514  Louis  of  Brittany  married  Mary  Tudor — 
the  beautiful  sister  of  Henry  VIII. — only  to  leave 
her  a  widow  a  few  months  later.  She  returned 
to  England  and  afterwards  became  the  wife  of  the 
Duke  of  Suffolk. 

It  is  market-day  in  Montreuil  and  the  streets  are 
crowded  with  country  people.  We  stop  in  the 
thronged  market-place,  where  a  lively  scene  is  being 
enacted.  All  kinds  of  garden  produce  and  fruits 
are  offered  for  sale  and  we  are  importuned  to  pur- 
chase by  the  enterprising  market-women.  We  find 
the  fruit  excellent  and  inexpensive,  and  this,  with 
a  number  of  other  object  lessons  in  the  course  of 
our  travels,  impressed  us  with  the  advantages  of  the 
European  market  plan,  which  brings  fresh  produce 
direct  to  the  consumer  at  a  moderate  price. 

We  have  most  of  the  afternoon  about  Boulogne. 
In  starting  on  our  tour  a  month  before  we  hardly 
glanced  at  our  landing  port,  so  anxious  were  we 
for  the  country  roads;  but  as  we  drive  about  the 
city  now,  we  are  delighted  with  its  antiquity  and 
quaintness.  It  is  still  enclosed  by  walls — much  re- 
stored, it  is  true,  and  so,  perhaps,  are  the  unique 
gateways.  The  streets  are  mostly  paved  with  cob- 
bles, which  make  unpleasant  driving  and  after  a 
short  round  we  deliver  the  car  at  the  quay.  At 
the  Hotel  Angleterre  we  order  some  strawberries 
134 


A  PLIGHT   THROUGH   THE   NORTH 

as  an  "extra"  with  our  luncheon — these  being  just 
in  season — and  we  are  cheerfully  presented  with  a 
bill  for  six  francs  for  a  quantity  that  can  be  bought 
in  the  market-place  for  ten  cents — this  in  addition 
to  an  unusually  high  charge  for  the  meal.  Evidently 
Boulogne  Bonifaces  are  not  in  business  solely  for 
their  health.  The  town  is  a  frequented  summer 
resort,  with  a  good  beach  and  numerous  hotels  and 
lodging-places.  It  is  said  to  be  the  most  Anglicized 
town  in  France — almost  everyone  we  meet  seems 
familiar  with  English.  The  Captain  suggests  that 
we  may  be  interested  in  seeing  the  Casino,  one  of 
the  licensed  gambling-houses  allowed  in  a  few 
French  towns.  The  government  gets  a  good  share 
of  the  profits,  which  are  very  large.  We  do  not 
care  to  try  our  luck  on  the  big  wheel,  but  the  Cap- 
tain has  no  scruples — winning  freely  at  first,  but 
quitting  the  loser  by  a  goodly  number  of  francs — 
a  common  experience,  I  suppose.  The  small  boy 
is  not  allowed  to  enter  the  gambling  room,  from 
which  minors  are  rigidly  excluded. 

We  have  a  glorious  evening  for  crossing  to  Folke- 
stone— the  dreaded  Channel  is  on  its  best  behavior. 
A  magnificent  sunset  gilds  the  vast  expanse  of  rip- 
pling water  to  the  westward  and  flashes  on  the  white 
chalk  cliffs  of  the  English  shore.  As  we  come 
nearer  and  nearer  we  have  an  increasing  sense  of 

135 


THROUGH  SUMMER  PRANCE 

getting  back  home — and  England  has  for  us  an 
attractiveness  that  we  did  not  find  in  France  and 
Germany. 

And  yet  our  impressions  of  these  countries  were, 
on  the  whole,  very  favorable.  France,  so  far  as 
we  saw  it,  was  a  beautiful,  prosperous  country, 
though  there  was  not  for  us  the  romance  that  so 
delighted  us  in  England.  We  missed  the  ivied  ruins 
and  graceful  church-towers  that  lend  such  a  charm 
to  the  British  landscapes.  The  highways  generally 
were  magnificent,  though  already  showing  deteriora- 
tion in  many  places.  The  roads  of  France  require 
dustless  surfacing — oil  or  asphaltum,  similar  to  the 
methods  extensively  used  in  England.  Since  the 
time  of  our  tour  steps  have  been  taken  in  this  direc- 
tion and  in  time  France  will  have  by  far  the  best 
road-system  in  the  world.  Her  highways  are  al- 
ready broad  and  perfectly  engineered  and  need  only 
surfacing.  About  Paris  much  of  the  wretched  old 
pave  is  still  in  existence,  but  this  will  surely  be 
replaced  before  long.  The  roads  are  remarkably 
direct,  radiating  from  the  main  towns  like  the  spokes 
of  a  wheel,  usually  taking  the  shortest  cut  between 
two  important  points. 

The  squalor  and  filth  of  the  country  villages  in 
many  sections  is  an  unpleasant  revelation  to  the 
tourist  who  has  seen  only  the  cities,  which  are  clean 

136 


A  PLIGHT  THROUGH   THE   NORTH 

and  well-improved.  But  for  all  this  thrift  is  evi- 
dent everywhere;  nothing  is  allowed  to  go  to  waste; 
there  are  no  ragged,  untilled  corners  in  the  fields. 
Every  possible  force  is  utilized.  Horses,  dogs,  oxen, 
cows,  goats  and  donkeys  are  all  harnessed  to 
loads;  indeed,  the  Captain  says  there  is  a  proverb 
in  France  to  the  effect  that  "the  pig  is  the  only 
gentleman,"  for  he  alone  does  not  work.  The  wo- 
men seem  to  have  more  than  their  share  of  heavy 
disagreeable  tasks,  and  this  is  no  doubt  another  fac- 
tor in  French  prosperity. 

Despite  the  notion  to  the  contrary,  France  is  evi- 
dently a  very  religious  country — in  her  way.  Cruci- 
fixes, crosses,  shrines,  etc.  are  common  along  the 
country  roadsides,  and  churches  are  the  best  and 
most  important  buildings  in  the  towns  and  cities. 
Priests  are  seen  everywhere  and  apparently  have 
a  strong  hold  on  their  parishioners.  In  view  of 
such  strong  entrenchment,  it  seems  a  wonder  that 
the  government  was  able  to  completely  disestablish 
the  church  and  to  require  taxation  of  much  of  its 
property. 

The  country  policeman,  so  omnipresent  in  Eng- 
land, is  rarely  seen  in  France,  and  police  traps  in 
rural  districts  are  unknown.  Even  in  towns  arrests 
are  seldom  made — the  rule  being  to  interfere  only 
with  motorists  who  drive  "to  the  danger  of  the 
137 


THROUGH  SUMMER  PRANCE 

public."  One  misses  the  handy  fund  of  information 
which  an  English  policeman  can  so  readily  supply; 
the  few  French  officials  we  questioned  were  appar- 
ently neither  so  intelligent  nor  accommodating. 

We  were  astonished  to  see  so  few  motor  cars 
in  France,  and  many  which  we  did  see  were  those 
of  touring  foreigners.  France,  for  all  her  lead  in 
the  automobile  industry,  does  not  have  many  cars 
herself.  She  prefers  to  sell  them  to  the  other  fellow 
and  keep  the  money.  The  number  of  cars  in  France 
is  below  the  average  for  each  of  the  states  of  the 
Union,  and  the  majority  are  in  Paris  and  vicinity. 
French  cars  almost  dominate  the  English  market  and 
many  of  the  taxicabs  in  London  are  of  French  make. 
We  saw  a  large  shipment  of  these  on  the  wharves 
at  Boulogne.  If  it  were  not  for  our  tariff,  we  may 
be  sure  that  France  would  be  a  serious  competitor 
in  the  motor-car  trade  of  the  United  States.  There 
is  absolutely  no  prejudice  against  the  motorist  in 
France  and  foreigners  are  warmly  welcomed  to 
spend  their  money.  The  Frenchman  does  not  travel 
much — France  is  good  enough  for  him  and  he  looks 
on  the  Americans  and  Englishmen  who  throng  his 
country  as  a  financial  asset  and  makes  it  as  easy 
for  them  to  come  as  he  possibly  can.  In  fact,  un- 
der present  conditions  it  is  easier  to  tour  from 
one  European  country  to  another  than  it  is  among 
138 


A  FLIGHT   THROUGH   THE   NORTH 

our  own  states — one  can  arrange  with  the  Royal 
Automobile  Club  for  all  customs  formalities  and 
nothing  is  required  except  signing  a  few  papers  at 
each  frontier. 

In  some  respects  we  noted  a  strong  similarity  be- 
tween France  and  Germany.  The  cities  of  both 
countries  are  clean  and  up-to-date,  with  museums, 
galleries,  splendid  churches  and  fine  public  build- 
ings. In  both — so  far  as  we  saw — the  small  villages 
are  primitive  and  filthy  in  the  extreme  and  in  rural 
districts  the  heaviest  burdens  appear  to  fall  on  the 
women.  In  both  countries  farming  is  thoroughly 
done  and  every  available  bit  of  land  is  utilized. 
Each  gives  intelligent  attention  to  forestry — there 
are  many  forests  now  in  their  prime,  young  trees 
are  being  grown,  and  the  roadsides  are  planted  with 
trees. 

The  roads  of  Germany  are  far  behind  those  of 
France;  nor  does  any  great  interest  seem  to  be  taken 
in  highway  improvement.  Of  course  the  roads  are 
fairly  well  maintained,  but  there  is  apparently  no 
effort  to  create  a  system  of  boulevards  such  as 
France  possesses.  Germany  has  even  fewer  motor 
cars  than  her  neighbor,  a  much  smaller  number  of 
automobile  tourists  enter  her  borders,  and  there  is 
more  hostility  towards  them  on  part  of  the  country 
people.  There  are  no  speed  traps,  but  one  is  liable 

139 


THROUGH  SUMMER  FRANCE 

to  be  arrested  for  fast  driving  in  many  towns  and 
cities. 

The  German  business-man  strikes  one  more  fav- 
orably than  the  Frenchman;  he  is  sturdy,  good-look- 
ing and  alert,  and  even  in  a  small  establishment 
shows  the  characteristics  that  are  so  rapidly  push- 
ing his  country  to  the  front  in  a  commercial  way. 

But  the  greatest  difference  in  favor  of  Germany 
— at  least  so  far  as  outward  appearance  goes — is 
to  be  seen  in  her  soldiery.  Soldiers  are  everywhere 
— always  neat  and  clean,  with  faultless  uniform  and 
shining  accoutrements,  marching  with  a  firm,  steady, 
irresistible  swing.  To  the  casual  observer  it  would 
seem  that  if  an  army  of  these  soldiers  should  enter 
France  they  could  march  directly  on  Paris  without 
serious  resistance.  But  some  authorities  say  that 
German  militarism  is  a  hollow  show  and  that  there 
is  more  real  manhood  in  the  Frenchman.  Let  us 
hope  the  question  will  not  have  to  be  settled  again 
on  the  field  of  battle. 

Perhaps  these  random  impressions  which  I  have 
been  recording  are  somewhat  superficial,  but  I  shall 
let  them  stand  for  what  they  are  worth.  On  our 
long  summer  jaunt  through  these  two  great  coun- 
tries we  have  had  many  experiences — not  all  of 
them  pleasant.  But  we  have  seen  many  things  and 
learned  much  that  would  have  been  quite  inacces- 
140 


A  PLIGHT  THROUGH   THE   NORTH 

sible  to  us  in  the  old  grooves  of  travel — thanks  to 
our  trusty  companion  of  the  wind-shod  wheels. 
And  perhaps  the  best  possible  proof  that  we  really 
enjoyed  our  pilgrimage  is  a  constantly  increasing 
desire  to  repeat  it — with  variations — should  our  cir- 
cumstances again  permit. 


141 


Odd  Corners  of  Britain 


Odd  Corners  of  Britain 
VIII 

THE  MOTHERLAND  ONCE  MORE 

Back  to  England — back  to  England!  Next  to 
setting  foot  in  the  homeland  itself,  nothing  could 
have  been  more  welcome  to  us  after  our  month's 
exile  on  the  Continent.  And  I  am  not  saying  that 
we  did  not  enjoy  our  Continental  rambles;  that  we 
did  the  pages  of  this  book  amply  testify.  It  seemed 
to  us,  however,  that  for  motor  touring,  England 
surpasses  any  other  country  in  many  respects.  First 
of  all,  the  roads  average  vastly  better — we  remem- 
bered with  surprise  the  stories  we  had  heard  of 
the  greatly  superior  roads  of  France — a  delusion 
entertained  by  many  Englishmen,  for  that  matter. 
We  had  also  found  by  personal  experience  that  the 
better  English  inns  outclass  those  on  the  Continent 
in  service  and  cleanliness  and  never  attempt  the 
overcharges  and  exactions  not  uncommon  in  France 
and  Germany.  The  second-rate  French  inn,  we 
are  informed  on  good  authority,  is  more  tolerable 
than  the  second-rate  inn  of  England.  An  exper- 

145 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

ienced  English  motorist  told  us  that  since  expense 
was  a  consideration  to  him,  he  generally  spent  his 
vacations  in  France.  He  declared  that  there  he 
could  put  up  comfortably  and  cheaply  at  the  less 
pretentious  inns  while  he  would  never  think  of  stop- 
ping at  English  hotels  of  the  same  class.  I  fancy, 
however,  that  if  one  follows  Baedeker — our  usual 
guide  in  such  matters — and  selects  number  one 
among  the  list,  he  will  find  every  advantage  with 
the  English  hotels. 

And  we  are  sure  that  the  English  landscapes  are 
the  most  beautiful  in  the  world.  Everywhere  one 
sees  trim,  parklike  neatness — vistas  of  well-tilled 
fields  interspersed  with  great  country  seats,  storied 
ruins  and  the  ubiquitous  church-tower  so  character- 
istic of  Britain.  It  is  a  distinctive  church-tower, 
rising  from  green  masses  of  foliage  such  as  one  sel- 
dom sees  elsewhere.  And  where  else  in  a  civilized 
country  will  one  find  such  trees — splendid,  beauti- 
fully proportioned  trees,  standing  in  solitary  majesty 
in  the  fields,  stretching  in  impressive  ranks  along 
the  roadside  or  clustering  in  towering  groups  about 
some  country  mansion  or  village  church? 

And  who  could  be  impervious  to  the  charm  of 
the  English  village?  Cleanly,  pleasantly  situated 
and  often  embowered  in  flowers,  it  appeals  to  the 
artistic  sense  and  affords  the  sharpest  possible  con- 

146 


THE  MOTHERLAND  ONCE  MORE 

trast  to  the  filthy  and  malodorous  little  hamlets  of 
France  and  Germany.  The  cities  and  larger  towns 
of  these  countries  do  not  suffer  any  such  disadvan- 
tage in  comparison  with  places  of  the  same  size  in 
England — but  we  care  less  for  the  cities,  often 
avoiding  them.  In  England,  we  found  ourselves 
among  people  speaking  a  common  language  and 
far  more  kindly  and  considerate  towards  the 
stranger  within  their  gates  than  is  common  on  the 
Continent.  We  can  dispense  with  our  courier, 
too,  for  though  he  was  an  agreeable  fellow,  we 
enjoy  it  best  alone.  So,  then,  we  are  glad  to  be 
back  in  Britain  and  are  eager  to  explore  her  high- 
ways and  byways  once  more. 

We  plan  a  pilgrimage  to  John  O'Groat's  house 
and  of  course  the  Royal  Automobile  Club  is  con- 
sulted. 

"We  have  just  worked  out  a  new  route  to  Edin- 
burgh," said  Mr.  Maroney,  "which  avoids  the 
cities  and  a  large  proportion  of  police  traps  as  well. 
You  leave  the  Great  North  Road  at  Doncaster 
and  proceed  northward  by  Boroughbridge,  Wilton- 
le-Wear,  Corbridge,  Jedburgh  and  Melrose.  You 
will  also  see  some  new  country,  as  you  are  already 
familiar  with  the  York-Newcastle  route." 

And  so  we  find  ourselves  at  the  Red  Lion  at 
Hatfield,  about  twenty  miles  out  of  London  on  the 

147 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

beginning  of  our  northern  journey.  It  is  a  cleanly, 
comfortable-looking  old  house,  and  though  it  is  well 
after  noon,  an  excellent  luncheon  is  promptly  served 
— the  roadside  inns  are  adapting  themselves  to  the 
irregular  hours  of  the  motorist. 

Hatfield  House — the  Salisbury  estate — is  near 
the  inn,  but  though  we  have  passed  it  several  times, 
we  have  never  hit  on  one  of  the  "open"  days,  and 
besides,  we  have  lost  a  good  deal  of  our  ambition 
for  doing  palaces;  half-forgotten  and  out-of-the-way 
places  appeal  more  strongly  now.  We  are  soon 
away  on  the  splendid  highway  which  glistens  from 
a  heavy  summer  shower  that  fell  while  we 
were  at  luncheon.  We  proceed  soberly,  for  we 
have  had  repeated  warnings  of  police  traps  along 
the  road.  The  country  is  glorious  after  the  dash- 
ing rainfall;  fields  of  German  clover  are  in  bloom, 
dashes  of  dark  red  amidst  the  prevailing  green; 
long  rows  of  sweet-scented  carmine-flowered  beans 
load  the  air  with  a  heavy  perfume.  A  little  later, 
when  we  pass  out  of  the  zone  of  the  shower  we 
find  hay-making  in  progress  and  everything  is 
redolent  of  the  new-mown  grasses.  Every  little 
while  we  pass  a  village  and  at  Stilton — I  have  writ- 
ten elsewhere  of  its  famous  old  inn — a  dirty  urchin 
runs  alongside  the  car  howling,  "Police  traps! 

148 


THE  MOTHERLAND  ONCE  MORE 

Look    out    for   police    traps!"  until    he    receives  a 
copper  to  reward  his  solicitude  for  our  welfare. 

Toward  evening  we  come  in  sight  of  Grantham's 
magnificent  spire  and  we  have  the  pleasantest  recol- 
lections of  the  Angel  Inn,  where  we  stopped  some 
years  previously — we  will  close  the  day's  journey 
here.  One  would  never  get  from  the  Angel's  mod- 
est, ivy-clad  front  any  idea  of  the  rambling  struc- 
ture behind  it;  indeed,  I  have  often  wondered  how 
all  the  labyrinth  of  floors,  apartments  and  hallways 
could  be  crowded  behind  such  a  modest  facade 
as  that  of  the  Red  Lion  of  Banbury,  the  Swan  of 
Mansfield  or  the  Angel  of  Grantham,  for  example. 
Such  inns  are  no  doubt  a  heritage  of  the  days  when 
it  was  necessary  to  utilize  every  available  inch  of 
space  within  the  city  walls.  In  most  cases  they 
are  conducted  with  characteristic  English  thorough- 
ness and  are  cleanly  and  restful,  despite  their  anti- 
quity and  the  fact  that  they  are  closely  hedged  in 
by  other  buildings.  As  a  rule  part  or  all  of  the 
old  inner  court  which  formerly  served  as  a  stable- 
yard  has  been  adapted  as  a  motor  garage. 

The  Angel  is  said  to  have  been  in  existence  as 
a  hostelry  as  early  as  1208,  but  the  arched  gate- 
way opening  on  the  street  may  be  of  still  earlier 
date,  having  probably  formed  a  part  of  some  mon- 
astic building.  Tradition  connects  Charles  I.  with 

149 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

the  inn — an  English  inn  of  such  antiquity  would  be 
poor  indeed  without  a  legend  of  the  Wanderer — 
but  the  claims  of  the  Angel  to  royal  associations 
go  back  much  farther,  for  King  John  is  declared 
to  have  held  his  court  here  in  1213.  Richard  III. 
is  also  alleged  to  have  stopped  here  and  to  have 
signed  the  death  warrant  of  the  Duke  of  Buck- 
ingham at  the  time.  There  is  record  of  princely 
visitors  of  later  dates  and  it  is  easy  to  see  that 
the  Angel  has  had  rare  distinction — from  the  Eng- 
lish point  of  view.  We  remember  it,  however, 
not  so  much  for  its  traditions  as  for  the  fact  that 
we  are  given  a  private  sitting-room  in  connection 
with  our  bed-rooms  with  no  apparent  increase  in 
the  bill.  Our  good  luck  in  this  particular  may 
have  been  due  to  the  slack  business  at  the  time  of 
our  arrival  and  we  could  hardly  expect  to  have 
our  accommodations  duplicated  should  we  visit  the 
Angel  and  Royal  again. 

Grantham  is  a  town  of  nearly  twenty  thousand 
people,  though  it  does  not  so  impress  the  stranger 
who  rambles  about  its  streets.  Two  or  three  large 
factories  are  responsible  for  its  size,  but  these  have 
little  altered  its  old-time  heart.  The  center  of  this 
is  marked  by  St.  Wulfram's  Church,  one  of  the 
noblest  parish  churches  in  the  Kingdom.  Its  spire, 
a  shapely  Gothic  needle  of  solid  stone,  rises  nearly 

150 


ST.  WULFRAM'S  CHURCH-GRANTHAM 


THE  MOTHERLAND  ONCE  MORE 

three  hundred  feet  into  the  heavens,  springing  from 
a  massive  square  tower  perhaps  half  the  total  height. 
The  building  shows  nearly  all  Gothic  styles,  though 
the  Decorated  and  Early  English  predominate.  It 
dates  from  the  thirteenth  century  and  has  many 
interesting  monuments  and  tombstones.  Its  gar- 
goyles, we  agreed,  were  as  curious  as  any  we  saw 
in  England;  uncanny  monsters  and  queer  demons 
leer  upon  one  from  almost  any  viewpoint.  Inside 
there  is  a  marvelously  carved  baptismal  font  and 
a  chained  library  of  the  sixteenth  century  similar 
to  the  one  in  Wimborne  Minster.  Altogether,  St. 
Wulfram's  is  one  of  the  notable  English  country 
churches,  though  perhaps  among  the  lesser  known. 
Grantham  also  possesses  an  ancient  almshouse  of 
striking  architecture  and  a  grammar  school  which 
once  included  among  its  pupils  Sir  Isaac  Newton, 
who  was  born  at  Woolsthorpe  Manor,  near  the 
town. 

Old  Whitby  appeals  to  our  recollection  as  worth 
a  second  visit  and  we  depart  from  our  prearranged 
route  at  Doncaster,  reaching  York  in  the  late  after- 
noon. It  has  been  a  cold,  rainy  day  and  we  can- 
not bring  ourselves  to  pass  the  Station  Hotel,  though 
Whitby  is  but  fifty  miles  farther  and  might  be 
reached  before  nightfall. 

We  have  previously  visited   York   many   times, 
161 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

but  have  given  our  time  mainly  to  the  show-places 
and  we  devote  the  following  forenoon  to  the  shops. 
There  are  many  interesting  book-stalls  and  no  end 
of  antique-stores  with  many  costly  curios,  such  as 
a  Scotch  claymore,  accompanied  by  documents  to 
prove  that  it  once  belonged  to  Prince  Charlie.  The 
shops,  it  seemed  to  us,  were  hardly  up  to  standard 
for  a  city  of  nearly  one  hundred  thousand.  But 
York,  while  of  first  rank  as  an  ecclesiastical  seat 
and  famous  for  its  quaint  corners  and  antiquity,  is 
not  of  great  commercial  or  manufacturing  import- 
ance. It  is  a  busy  railroad  center,  with  hundreds 
of  trains  daily,  and  next  to  Chester  probably  at- 
tracts a  greater  number  of  tourists  than  any  other 
English  provincial  town.  Leeds,  Bradford,  Shef- 
field, Hull,  Middlesbrough,  Halifax  and  Hudders- 
field  are  all  Yorkshire  cities  with  larger  population 
and  greater  commercial  activities.  Of  English 
churches  we  should  be  inclined  to  give  York  Cathe- 
dral first  place,  though  viewpoints  on  such  matters 
are  so  widely  different  that  this  may  be  disputed 
by  good  authorities.  In  size,  striking  architecture 
and  beautiful  windows,  it  is  certainly  not  surpassed, 
though  it  has  not  the  historical  associations  of  many 
of  its  rivals. 

Whitby  is  but  fifty  miles  from  York.     An  ex- 
cellent road  runs  through  a  green,  prosperous  coun- 

162 


THE  MOTHERLAND  ONCE  MORE 

try  as  far  as  Pickering — about  a  score  of  miles — 
but  beyond  this  we  plunge  into  the  forbidding  hills 
of  the  bleakest,  blackest  of  English  moors.  It  is 
too  early  for  the  heather-bloom,  which  will  brighten 
the  dreary  landscape  a  few  weeks  later,  and  a  driz- 
zling rain  is  falling  from  lowering  clouds.  The  stony 
road,  with  steep  grades  and  sharp  turns,  requires 
closest  attention  and,  altogether,  it  is  a  run  that  is 
pleasant  only  in  retrospect  when  reviewed  from  a 
cozy  arm-chair  by  the  evening  fire. 

I  am  going  to  write  a  chapter  giving  our  im- 
pressions of  Old  Whitby  which,  I  hope,  will  re- 
flect a  little  of  its  charm  and  romance,  so  we  may 
pass  it  here.  We  resume  our  journey  after  a  pleas- 
ant pause  in  the  old  town  and  proceed  by  Guis- 
borough,  Stockton  and  Darlington  to  Bishop  Auck- 
land, where  we  again  take  up  our  northern  route. 

Bishop  Auckland  gets  its  ecclesiastical  prefix 
from  the  fact  that  since  the  time  of  Edward  I.  it 
has  been  the  site  of  one  the  palaces  of  the  Bishops 
of  Durham.  The  present  building  covers  a  space 
of  no  less  than  five  acres  and  is  surrounded  by  a 
park  more  than  a  square  mile  in  extent.  The  pal- 
ace is  splendid  and  spacious,  though  very  irregular, 
the  result  of  additions  made  from  time  to  time  in 
varying  architectural  styles.  It  is  easy  to  see  how 
the  maintenance  of  such  an  establishment — and 

158 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

others  besides — keeps  the  good  bishop  poor,  though 
his  salary  is  about  the  same  as  that  of  the  President 
of  the  United  States.  The  town  is  pleasantly  sit- 
uated on  an  eminence  near  the  confluence  of  the 
river  Wear  and  a  smaller  stream.  About  a  mile 
distant,  at  Escomb,  is  a  church  believed  to  date 
from  the  seventh  century.  It  is  quite  small  but  very 
solidly  built,  the  walls  tapering  upward  from  the 
ground,  and  some  of  the  bricks  incorporated  in 
it  are  clearly  of  Roman  origin,  one  of  them  bearing 
an  old  Latin  inscription. 

Bishop  Auckland  marks  the  western  termination 
of  Durham's  green  fields  and  fine  parks;  we  de- 
scend a  steep,  rough  hill  and  soon  find  ourselves  on 
a  very  bad  road  leading  through  a  bleak  mining 
country.  Tow-Law  is  the  first  of  several  bald,  an- 
gular villages  with  scarce  a  tree  or  shrub  to  relieve 
their  nakedness;  the  streets  are  thronged  with  dirty, 
ragged  urchins  and  slatternly  women  sit  on  the 
doorsteps  along  the  road.  The  country  is  disfig- 
ured with  unsightly  buildings  and  piles  of  waste 
fiom  the  coal-mines;  and  the  air  is  loaded  with 
sooty  vapors.  It  is  a  relief  to  pass  into  the  pictur- 
esque hills  of  Northumberland,  where,  even  though 
the  road  does  not  improve,  there  are  many  charm- 
ing panoramas  of  wooded  vales  with  here  and 
there  a  church-tower,  a  ruin  or  a  village.  Towns 
154 


THE  MOTHERLAND  ONCE  MORE 

on  the  road  are  few;  we  cross  the  Tyne  at  Cor- 
bridge,  where  a  fine  old  bridge  flings  its  high  stone 
arches  across  the  wide  river.  It  is  the  oldest  on 
the  Tyne,  having  braved  the  floods  for  nearly  two 
centuries  and  a  half.  In  1771  a  great  flood  swept 
away  every  other  bridge  on  the  river,  but  this 
sturdy  structure  survived  to  see  the  era  of  the  motor 
car.  A  bridge  has  existed  at  this  point  almost  con- 
tinuously since  Roman  times,  and  the  Roman  piers 
might  have  been  seen  until  very  recently.  The  vi- 
cinity is  noted  for  Roman  remains — sections  of  the 
Great  Wall  and  the  site  of  a  fortified  camp  being 
near  at  hand.  Many  relics  have  been  discovered 
near  by  and  researches  are  still  going  on.  The 
village  by  the  bridge  is  small  and  unimportant, 
though  it  has  an  ancient  church  which  shows  traces 
of  Roman  building  materials.  Most  remarkable  is 
the  Peel  tower  in  the  churchyard,  where  the  par- 
son is  supposed  to  have  taken  refuge  during  the 
frequent  Scotch  incursions  of  the  border  wars. 

Leaving  the  bridge  we  follow  the  Roman  Wat- 
ling  Street,  which  proceeds  in  almost  a  straight  line 
through  the  hills.  It  leads  through  a  country  famous 
in  song  and  story;  every  hill  and  valley  is  remin- 
iscent of  traditions  of  the  endless  border  wars  in 
which  Northumberland  figured  so  largely  and  for 
so  many  years.  Its  people,  too,  were  generally 
155 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

adherents  of  the  Stuarts  and  it  was  near  the  village 
of  Woodburn,  through  which  we  pass,  that  the 
Jacobites  attacked  the  forces  of  George  I.,  only 
to  meet  with  crushing  defeat,  resulting  in  the  ruin 
of  many  of  the  noblest  families  of  the  county.  A 
little  farther,  in  the  vale  of  Otterburn,  was  the  scene 
of  the  encounter  of  the  retainers  of  Douglas  and 
Percy,  celebrated  in  many  a  quaint  ballad.  In  the 
next  few  miles  are  Byrness  and  Catcleugh,  two  fine 
country-seats  quite  near  the  roadside,  and  there  is 
a  diminutive  but  very  old  church  close  to  the  for- 
mer house.  Byrness  is  the  seat  of  a  famous  fox- 
hunting squire  who  keeps  a  large  pack  of  hounds 
and  pursues  the  sport  with  great  zeal.  The  wild, 
broken  country  and  sparse  population  are  especially 
favorable  to  hunting  in  the  saddle.  There  is  no 
lack  of  genuine  sport,  since  the  wild  fox  is  a  men- 
ace to  lambs  and  must  be  relentlessly  pursued  to  the 
death.  Just  opposite  Catcleugh  House  a  fine  lake 
winds  up  the  valley  for  nearly  two  miles.  It  seems 
prosaic  when  we  leam  that  it  is  an  artificial  reser- 
voir, affording  a  water  supply  for  Newcastle-on- 
Tyne,  but  it  is  none  the  less  a  charming  accessory 
to  the  scenery.  Beyond  this  the  road  runs  through 
almost  unbroken  solitude  until  it  crosses  the  crest 
of  the  Cheviots  and  enters  the  hills  of  Scotland. 


156 


IX 

OLD  WHITBY 

It  is  a  gray,  lowering  evening  when  we  climb 
the  sharply  rising  slope  to  the  Royal  Hotel  to  take 
up  our  domicile  for  a  short  sojourn  in  Old  Whitby. 
The  aspect  of  the  town  on  a  dull  wet  evening  when 
viewed  from  behind  a  broad  window-pane  is  not 
without  its  charm,  though  I  may  not  be  competent 
to  reflect  that  charm  in  my  printed  page.  It  is  a 
study  in  somber  hues,  relieved  only  by  the  mass 
of  glistening  red  tiles  clustered  on  the  opposite  hill- 
side and  by  an  occasional  lighted  window.  The 
skeleton  of  the  abbey  and  dark  solid  bulk  of  St. 
Mary's  Church  are  outlined  against  the  light  gray 
of  the  skies,  which,  on  the  ocean  side,  bend  down 
to  a  restless  sea,  itself  so  gray  that  you  could 
scarce  mark  the  dividing  line  were  it  not  for  the 
leaden-colored  waves  breaking  into  tumbling  masses 
of  white  foam.  Looking  up  the  narrow  estuary 
into  which  the  Esk  discharges  its  waters,  one  gets 
a  dim  view  of  the  mist-shrouded  hills  on  either  side 
and  of  numerous  small  boats  and  sailing  vessels  rid- 
ing at  anchor  on  the  choppy  waves. 
157 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

It  is  a  wild  evening,  but  we  are  tempted  to  under- 
take a  ramble  about  the  town,  braving  the  gusty 
blasts  that  sweep  through  the  narrow  lanes  and  the 
showers  of  spray  that  envelop  the  bridge  by  which 
one  crosses  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  inlet.  There 
is  little  stirring  on  the  streets  and  the  alleylike  lanes 
are  quite  deserted.  Most  of  the  shops  are  closed 
and  only  the  lights  streaming  from  windows  of  the 
houses  on  the  hillside  give  relief  to  the  deepening 
shadows.  The  gathering  darkness  and  the  increas- 
ing violence  of  the  wind  deter  us  from  our  purpose 
of  climbing  the  long  flight  of  steps  to  the  summit 
of  the  cliff  on  which  the  abbey  stands  and  we  slow- 
ly wend  our  way  back  to  the  hotel. 

The  following  morning  a  marked  change  has 
taken  place.  The  mists  of  the  previous  evening 
have  been  swept  away  and  the  intensely  blue  sky 
is  mottled  with  white  vapory  clouds  which  scurry 
along  before  a  stiff  sea-breeze.  The  deep  indigo 
blue  of  the  ocean  is  flecked  with  masses  of  white 
foam  rolling  landward  on  the  crests  of  the  waves, 
which  break  into  spray  on  the  rocks  and  piers.  The 
sea-swell  enters  the  estuary,  tossing  the  numerous 
fishing  smacks  which  ride  at  anchor  and  lending  a 
touch  of  animation  to  the  scene.  The  abbey  ruin 
and  church,  always  the  dominating  feature  of  East 
Cliff,  stand  out  clearly  against  the  silvery  horizon 

158 


OLD  WHITBY 

and  present  a  totally  different  aspect  from  that  which 
impressed  us  last  evening.  In  the  searching  light 
of  day,  the  broken  arches  and  tottering  walls  tell 
plainly  the  story  of  the  ages  of  neglect  and  plunder 
that  they  have  undergone  and  speak  unmistakably 
of  a  vanished  order  of  things.  Last  night,  shrouded 
as  they  were  in  mysterious  shadows,  the  traces  of 
wreck  and  ruin  were  half  concealed  and  it  did  not 
require  an  extraordinarily  vivid  imagination  to  pic- 
ture the  great  structures  as  they  were  in  their  prime 
and  to  re-people  them  with  their  ancient  habitants, 
the  gray  monks  and  nuns.  To-day  the  red  and 
white  flag  of  St.  George  is  flying  from  the  low 
square  tower  of  St.  Mary's  and  crowds  of  Sunday 
worshipers  are  ascending  the  broad  flight  of  stairs. 
Services  have  been  held  continuously  in  the  plain 
old  edifice  for  seven  centuries — its  remote  situation 
and  lack  of  anything  to  attract  the  looter  or  enrage 
the  iconoclast  kept  it  safe  during  the  period  which 
desecrated  or  destroyed  so  many  churches. 

The  history  of  a  town  like  Whitby  is  not  of 
much  moment  to  the  casual  sojourner,  who  is  apt 
to  find  himself  more  attracted  by  its  romance  than 
by  sober  facts.  Still,  we  are  glad  to  know  that 
the  place  is  very  ancient,  dating  back  to  Saxon 
times.  It  figured  in  the  wars  with  the  Danes  and 
in  the  ninth  century  was  so  devastated  as  to  be 

lit 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

almost  obliterated  for  two  hundred  years.  It  was 
not  until  the  reign  of  Elizabeth  that  it  took  rank 
as  a  seaport.  The  chief  industry  up  to  the  last 
century  was  whale-fishing,  and  a  hardy  race  of 
sea-faring  men  was  bred  in  the  town,  among  them 
Captain  Cook,  the  famous  explorer.  While  fishing 
was  ostensibly  the  chief  means  of  livelihood  of  the 
inhabitants  of  Whitby,  it  could  hardly  have  been 
wholly  responsible  for  the  wealth  that  was  enough 
to  attract  Robin  Hood  and  his  retainers  to  the 
town  and  they  did  not  go  away  empty-handed  by 
any  means.  The  Abbot  of  Whitby  protected  his 
own  coffers  by  showing  the  outlaw  every  courtesy, 
but  Robin  was  not  so  considerate  of  the  purses  of 
the  townspeople.  Probably  he  felt  little  compunc- 
tion at  easing  the  reputed  fishermen  of  their  wealth, 
for  he  doubtless  knew  that  it  was  gained  by  smug- 
gling and  it  was,  after  all,  only  a  case  of  one  out- 
law fleecing  another.  The  position  of  the  town 
behind  some  leagues  of  sterile  moor,  traversed  by 
indifferent  and  even  dangerous  roads,  was  especially 
favorable  for  such  an  irregular  occupation;  and  it 
moreover  precluded  Whitby  from  figuring  in  the 
great  events  of  the  Kingdom,  being  so  far  removed 
from  the  theatre  of  action.  With  the  decline  of 
the  whale-fisheries,  the  mining  and  manufacture  of 
jet  began  to  assume  considerable  proportion  and  is 
160 


OLD  WHITBY 

to-day  one  of  the  industries  of  the  place.  This  is 
a  bituminous  substance — in  the  finished  product, 
smooth,  lustrous  and  intensely  black.  It  is  fashioned 
into  personal  ornaments  of  many  kinds  and  was 
given  a  great  vogue  by  Queen  Victoria.  It  is 
found  only  in  the  vicinity  of  Whitby  and  is  sold 
the  world  over,  though  it  has  to  compete  with  cheap 
imitations,  usually  made  of  glass. 

St.  Hilda's  Abbey  is  the  chief  monument  of  antiq- 
uity in  Whitby  and  aside  from  actual  history  it 
has  the  added  interest  of  being  interwoven  with 
the  romantic  lines  of  Scott's  "Marmion."  Situated 
on  the  summit  of  East  Cliff,  it  has  been  for  several 
centuries  the  last  object  to  bid  farewell  to  the  de- 
parting mariner  and  the  first  to  gladden  his  eyes 
on  his  return.  Seldom  indeed  did  the  old  monks 
select  such  a  site;  they  were  wont  to  seek  some 
more  sheltered  spot  on  the  shore  of  lake  or  river — 
as  at  Rievaulx,  Fountains  or  Easby.  But  this 
abbey  was  founded  under  peculiar  conditions,  for 
the  original  was  built  as  far  back  as  658  in  ful- 
fillment of  a  vow  made  by  King  Oswy  of  North- 
umbria.  In  accordance  with  the  spirit  of  his  time, 
the  king  made  an  oath  on  the  verge  of  a  battle 
with  one  of  his  petty  neighbors  that  if  God  granted 
him  the  victory  he  would  found  an  abbey  and  that 
his  own  daughter,  the  Lady  Hilda,  should  be  first 

161 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

abbess.  All  traces  of  this  early  structure  have  dis- 
appeared, but  it  was  doubtless  quite  insignificant 
compared  with  its  successor,  for  the  Saxons  never 
progressed  very  far  in  the  art  of  architecture.  The 
fame  of  Hilda's  piety  and  intelligence  attracted 
many  scholars  to  the  abbey,  among  them  Caedmon, 
"the  father  of  English  poetry,"  who,  as  the  inscrip- 
tion on  the  stately  memorial  in  St.  Mary's  church- 
yard reads,  "fell  asleep  hard  by  A.  D.  680."  The 
death  of  the  good  abbess  also  occurred  in  the  same 
year.  Her  successor,  Elfleda,  governed  for  a  third 
of  a  century,  after  which  little  record  remains.  The 
original  abbey  was  probably  destroyed  in  the  Dan- 
ish wars.  It  was  revived  after  the  Conquest  in 
1078  by  monks  of  the  Benedictine  order  and  grad- 
ually a  vast  pile  of  buildings  was  erected  on  the 
headland,  but  of  these  only  the  ruined  church  re- 
mains. The  great  size  and  splendid  design  of  the 
church  would  seem  to  indicate  that  in  its  zenith 
of  power  and  prosperity  Whitby  Abbey  must  have 
been  of  first  rank.  Its  active  history  ended  with 
its  dissolution  by  Henry  VIII.  Scott  in  "Mar- 
mion"  represents  the  abbey  as  being  under  the 
sway  of  an  abbess  in  1513,  the  date  of  Flodden, 
but  this  is  an  anachronism,  since  an  abbot  ruled 
it  in  its  last  days  and  the  nuns  had  long  before 
vanished  from  its  cloisters. 

162 


OLD  WHITBY 

He  was  a  pretty  poor  saint  in  the  "days  of 
faith"  who  did  not  have  several  miracles  or  marvels 
to  his  credit  and  St.  Hilda  was  no  exception  to  the 
rule.  One  legend  runs  that  the  early  inhabitants 
were  pestered  by  snakes  and  that  the  saint  prayed 
that  the  reptiles  be  transmuted  into  stone;  and  for 
ages  the  ammonite  shells  which  abound  on  the  coast 
and  faintly  resemble  a  coiled  snake  were  pointed 
out  as  evidence  of  the  efficacy  of  Hilda's  petition. 
It  was  also  said  of  the  sea-birds  that  flew  over 
Whitby's  towers  that 

"Sinking  down  on  pinions  faint, 
They  do  their  homage  to  the  saint." 
And  an  English  writer  humorously  suggests  that 
perhaps  "the  birds  had  a  certain  curiosity  to  see 
what  was  going  on  in  this  mixed  brotherhood  of 
monks  and  nuns."  The  most  persistent  marvel, 
however,  which  was  credited  by  the  more  super- 
stitious less  than  a  century  ago,  was  that  from  West 
Cliff  under  certain  conditions  the  saint  herself, 
shrouded  in  white,  might  be  seen  standing  in  one 
of  the  windows  of  the  ruin;  though  it  is  now  clear 
that  the  apparition  was  the  result  of  a  peculiar 
reflection  of  the  sun's  rays. 

The  salt  sea  winds,  the  driving  rain  of  summer 
and  the  wild  winter  storms  have  wrought  much 
havoc  in  the  eight  hundred  years  that  "High  Whit- 

163 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

by's  cloistered  pile"  has  braved  the  elements.  A 
little  more  than  fifty  years  ago  the  central  tower 
crashed  to  earth,  carrying  many  of  the  surrounding 
arches  with  it,  and  the  mighty  fragments  still  lie 
as  they  fell.  The  remaining  walls  and  arches  are 
now  guarded  with  the  loving  care  which  is  being 
lavished  to-day  upon  the  historic  ruins  of  England 
and  one  can  only  regret  that  the  spirit  which  in- 
spires it  was  not  aroused  at  least  a  hundred 
years  ago. 

St.  Mary's,  a  stone's  throw  from  the  abbey,  is 
one  of  the  crudest  and  least  ornate  of  any  of  the 
larger  churches  which  we  saw  in  England.  Its 
lack  of  architectural  graces  may  be  due  to  the  fact 
that  it  was  originally  built — about  1110,  by  de 
Percy,  Abbot  of  Whitby — for  "the  use  of  the 
common  people  of  the  town,"  the  elaborate  abbey 
church  being  reserved  for  the  monks.  Perhaps  the 
worthy  abbot  little  dreamed  that  the  plain,  massive 
structure  which  he  thought  good  enough  for  the 
laity  would  be  standing,  sturdy  and  strong  and  still 
in  daily  use  centuries  after  his  beautiful  abbey  fane, 
with  its  graceful  arches,  its  gorgeous  windows  and 
splendid  towers  had  fallen  into  hopeless  ruin.  All 
around  the  church  are  blackened  old  gravestones 
in  the  midst  of  which  rises  the  tall  Caedmon  Cross, 
erected  but  a  few  years  ago.  To  reach  St.  Mary's 

164 


PIER   LANE,    WHITBY 

From  original  painting  by  J.  V.  Jelley,  exhibited  in 
1910  Royal  Academy 


OLD  WHITBY 

one  must  ascend  the  hundred  and  ninety-nine  broad 
stone  steps  that  lead  up  the  cliff — a  task  which 
would  test  the  zeal  of  many  church-goers  in  these 
degenerate  days. 

We  enjoyed  our  excursions  about  the  town,  for 
among  the  network  of  narrow  lanes  we  came  upon 
many  odd  nooks  and  corners  and  delightful  old 
shops.  The  fish-market,  where  the  modest  catch 
of  local  fishermen  is  sold  each  day,  is  on  the  west 
side.  The  scene  here  is  liveliest  during  the  months 
of  August  and  September,  when  the  great  harvest 
of  the  sea  is  brought  in  at  Whitby.  It  was  on 
the  west  side,  too,  that  we  found  Pier  Lane  after 
a  dint  of  inquiry — for  the  little  Royal  Academy 
picture  which  graces  these  pages  had  made  us 
anxious  to  see  the  original.  Many  of  the  natives 
shook  their  heads  dubiously  when  we  asked  for 
directions,  but  a  friendly  policeman  finally  piloted 
us  to  the  entrance  of  the  lane.  It  proved  a  mere 
brick-paved  passageway  near  the  fish-market,  about 
five  or  six  feet  in  width,  and  from  the  top  we 
caught  the  faint  glimpse  of  the  abbey  which  the 
artist  has  introduced  into  the  picture.  It  is  one  of 
the  many  byways  that  intersect  the  main  streets  of 
the  town — though  these  streets  themselves  are  often 
so  narrow  and  devious  as  to  scarce  deserve  the 
adjective  I  have  applied  to  them.  Whitby  has  no 
165 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

surprises  in  overhanging  gables,  carved  oak  beams, 
curiously  paneled  doorway*  or  other  bits  of  artistic 
architecture  such  as  delight  one  in  Ludlow,  Canter- 
bury or  Shrewsbury.  Everything  savors  of  utility; 
the  oldtime  Yorkshire  fishern  an  had  no  time  and 
little  inclination  to  carve  oak  and  stone  for  his 
dwelling.  I  am  speaking  of  the  old  Whitby, 
crowded  along  the  waterside — the  ne  r  town,  with 
its  ostentatious  hotels  and  lodging-houses,  extends 
along  the  summit  of  West  Cliff  and  while  very 
necessary,  no  doubt,  it  adds  nothing  to  the  charm 
of  the  place.  As  an  English  artist  justly  observes, 
"While  Whitby  is  one  of  the  most  strikingly  pic- 
turesque towns  in  England,  it  has  scarcely  any 
architectural  attractions.  Its  charm  does  not  lie  so 
much  in  detail  as  in  broad  effects" — the  effects  of 
the  ruin,  the  red  roofs,  the  fisher-boats,  the  sea  and 
the  old  houses,  which  vary  widely  under  the 
moods  of  sun  and  shade  that  flit  over  the  place. 
The  words  of  a  writer  who  notes  this  variation 
throughout  a  typical  day  are  so  true  to  life  that 
I  am  going  to  repeat  them  here: 

"In  the  early  morning  the  East  Cliff  generally 
appears  merely  as  a  pale  gray  silhouette  with  a 
square  projection  representing  the  church,  and  a 
fretted  one  the  abbey.  But  as  the  sun  climbs  up- 
wards, colour  and  definition  grow  out  of  the  haze 

166 


OLD  WHITBY 

of  smoke  and  shadows,  and  the  roofs  assume  their 
ruddy  tones.  At  midday,  when  the  sunlight  pours 
down  upon  the  medley  of  houses  clustered  along 
the  face  of  the  cliff,  the  scene  is  brilliantly  colored. 
The  predominant  note  is  the  red  of  the  chimneys 
and  roofs  and  stray  patches  of  brickwork,  but  the 
walls  that  go  down  to  the  water's  edge  are  green 
below  andjull  of  rich  browns  above,  and  in  many 
places  the  ,sjdes  of  the  cottages  are  coloured  with 
an  ochre  wash,  while  above  them  all  the  top  of 
the  cliff  appears  covered  with  grass.  On  a  clear 
day,  when  detached  clouds  are  passing  across  the 
sun,  the  houses  are  sometimes  lit  up  in  the  strangest 
fashion,  their  quaint  outlines  being  suddenly  thrown 
out  from  the  cliff  by  a  broad  patch  of  shadow  upon 
the  grass  and  rocks  behind.  But  there  is  scarcely 
a  chimney  in  this  old  part  of  Whitby  that  does 
not  contribute  to  the  mist  of  blue-gray  smoke  that 
slowly  drifts  up  the  face  of  the  cliff,  and  thus,  when 
there  is  no  bright  sunshine,  colour  and  detail  are 
subdued  in  the  haze." 

In  St.  Mary's  churchyard  there  is  another  cross 
besides  the  stately  memorial  dedicated  to  Caedmon 
that  will  be  pointed  out  to  you — a  small,  graceful 
Celtic  cross  with  the  inscription: 

"Here  lies  the  body  of  Mary  LJnskill. 
Born  December  1 3,  1 840.     Died  April  9,  1 89 1 . 
After  life's  fitful  fever  she  sleeps  well 
Between  the  Heather  and  the  Northern  Sea." 
167 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

If  Caedmon  was  Whitby's  first  literary  idol, 
Mary  Linskill  is  the  last  and  best  loved,  for  hun- 
dreds of  Whitby  people  living  to-day  knew  the 
gentle  authoress  personally.  She  was  a  native  of 
the  town  and  being  early  dependent  on  her  own 
resources,  she  served  an  apprenticeship  in  a  milli- 
ner's shop  and  later  acted  as  an  amanuensis  to  a 
literary  gentleman.  It  was  in  this  position,  prob- 
ably, that  she  discovered  her  own  capacity  for 
writing  and  her  ability  to  tell  a  homely  story  in  a 
simple,  pleasing  way.  Her  first  efforts  in  the  way 
of  short  stories  appeared  in  "Good  Words."  Her 
first  novel,  "Cleveden,"  was  published  in  1876  and 
many  others  followed  at  various  intervals.  Perhaps 
the  best  known  are  distinctly  Whitby  stories — 
"The  Haven  Under  the  Hill."  and  "Between  the 
Heather  and  the  Northern  Sea."  Her  novels  in 
simplicity  of  plot  and  quiet  sentiment  may  be  com- 
pared with  those  of  Jane  Austen,  though  her  rank 
as  a  writer  is  far  below  that  of  the  Hampshire 
authoress.  Her  stories  show  a  wealth  of  imagina- 
tion and  a  true  artistic  temperament,  but  they  are 
often  too  greatly  dominated  by  melancholy  to  be 
widely  popular.  Most  of  them  dwell  on  the  infi- 
nite capacity  of  women  for  self-sacrifice  and  some- 
times the  pathetic  scenes  may  be  rather  overdrawn. 
There  are  many  beautiful  descriptive  passages  and 

16? 


OLD  WHITBY 

I  quote  one  from  "The  Haven  Under  the  Hill," 
because  it  sets  forth  in  such  a  delightful  manner 
the  charm  of  Old  Whitby  itself: 

"Everywhere  there  was  the  presence  of  the  sea. 
On  the  calmest  day  you  heard  the  low,  ceaseless 
roll  of  its  music  as  it  plashed  and  swept  about  the 
foot  of  the  stern,  darkly  towering  cliffs  on  either 
side  of  the  harbour-bar.  Everywhere  the  place 
was  blown  through  and  through  with  the  salt  breeze 
that  was  'half  an  air  and  half  a  water,'  scented 
with  sea-wrack  and  laden  not  rarely  with  drifting 
flakes  of  heavy  yeastlike  foam. 

"The  rapid  growth  of  the  town  had  been  owing 
entirely  to  its  nearness  to  the  sea.  When  the  mak- 
ing of  alum  was  begun  at  various  points  and  bays 
along  the  coast,  vessels  were  needed  for  carrying 
it  to  London,  'whither,'  as  an  old  chronicler  tells 
us,  'nobody  belonging  to  Hild's  Haven  had  ever 
gone  without  making  their  wills.'  This  was  the 
beginning  of  the  shipbuilding  trade,  which  grew 
and  flourished  so  vigorously,  lending  such  an  inter- 
est to  the  sights  and  sounds  of  the  place,  and  finally 
becoming  its  very  life.  What  would  the  old  haven 
have  been  without  the  clatter  of  its  carpenters' 
hammers,  the  whir  of  its  ropery  wheels,  the  smell 
of  its  boiling  tar-kettles,  the  busy  stir  and  hum  of 
its  docks  and  wharves  and  mast-yards?  And 
169 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

where,  in  the  midst  of  so  much  labour,  could  there 
have  been  found  any  time  to  laugh  or  to  dance, 
but  for  the  frequent  day  of  pride  and  rejoicing 
when  the  finished  ship  with  her  flying  flags  came 
slipping  slowly  from  the  stocks  to  the  waiting 
waters,  bending  and  gliding  with  a  grace  that  gave 
you  as  much  emotion  as  if  you  had  watched  some 
conscious  thing?.  . .  .It  is  a  little  sad  to  know  that 
one  has  watched  the  launching  of  the  last  wooden 
ship  that  shall  go  out  with  stately  masts  and  round- 
ing sails  from  the  Haven  Under  the  Hill. 

"Those  of  the  men  of  the  place  who  were  not 
actually  sailors  were  yet,  for  the  most  part,  in  some 
way  dependent  upon  the  great,  changeful,  boun- 
teous sea. 

"It  was  a  beautiful  place  to  have  been  born  in, 
beautiful  with  history  and  poetry  and  legend — 
with  all  manner  of  memorable  and  soul-stirring 
things." 

The  house  where  Mary  Linskill  was  born,  a 
plain  stone  structure  in  the  old  town,  still  stands 
and  is  the  goal  of  occasional  pilgrims  who  delight 
in  the  humbler  shrines  of  letters. 

It  seems  indeed  appropriate  that  the  old  sea 
town,  famous  two  centuries  ago  for  its  shipbuilding 
trade  and  hardy  mariners,  should  have  given  to 
the  world  one  of  its  great  sea-captains  and  ex- 

170 


OLD  WHITBY 

plorers.  A  mere  lad,  James  Cook  came  to  Whitby 
as  the  apprentice  of  a  shipbuilder.  His  master's 
house,  where  he  lived  during  his  apprenticeship,  still 
stands  in  Grape  Lane  and  bears  an  antique  tablet 
with  the  date  1688.  Cook's  career  as  an  explorer 
began  when  he  entered  the  Royal  Navy  in  1768. 
He  was  then  forty  years  of  age  and  had  already 
established  a  reputation  as  a  daring  and  efficient 
captain  in  the  merchant  service.  He  made  three 
famous  voyages  to  the  south  seas,  and  as  a  result 
of  these,  Australia  and  New  Zealand  are  now  a 
part  of  the  British  Empire,  an  achievement  which 
will  forever  keep  his  name  foremost  among  the 
world's  great  explorers.  He  lost  his  life  in  a  fight 
with  the  natives  of  the  Sandwich  Islands  in  1777, 
a  year  after  the  American  Declaration  of  Inde- 
pendence. His  mangled  remains  were  buried  in 
the  sea  whose  mysteries  he  had  done  so  much  to 
subdue. 

I  am  sensible  that  in  these  random  notes  I  have 
signally  failed  to  set  forth  the  varied  charms  of  the 
ancient  fisher-town  on  the  Northern  Sea,  but  I 
have  the  consolation  that  all  the  descriptions  and 
encomiums  I  have  read  have  the  same  failing  to  a 
greater  or  less  degree.  I  know  that  we  feel,  as  we 
speed  across  the  moorland  on  the  wild  windy 
morning  of  our  departure,  that  two  sojourns  in 

171 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

Whitby  are  not  enough;  and  are  already  solacing 
ourselves  with  the  hope  that  we  shall  some  time 
make  a  third  visit  to  the  "Haven  Under  the  Hill." 


172 


X 

SCOTT    COUNTRY    AND    HEART    OF    HIGHLANDS 

So  rough  and  broken  is  the  Northumberland 
country  that  we  are  scarcely  aware  when  we  enter 
the  Cheviot  Hills,  which  mark  the  dividing  line 
between  England  and  Scotland.  The  road  is  now 
much  improved;  having  been  recently  resurfaced 
with  reddish  stone,  it  presents  a  peculiar  aspect  as 
it  winds  through  the  green  hills  ahead  of  us,  often 
visible  for  a  considerable  distance.  It  is  compara- 
tively unfrequented;  there  are  no  villages  for  many 
miles  and  even  solitary  cottages  are  rare;  one  need 
not  worry  about  speed  limits  here.  Jedburgh  is 
the  first  town  after  crossing  the  border  and  there 
are  few  more  majestic  ruins  in  all  Scotland  than 
the  ancient  abbey  which  looms  high  over  the  town. 
It  recalls  the  pleasantest  recollections  of  our  former 
visit  and  the  wonder  is  that  it  does  not  attract  a 
greater  number  of  pilgrims. 

We  are  again  in  an  enchanted  land,  where  every 

name  reminds  us  of  the  domain  of  the  Wizard  of 

the  North!     Here  all  roads  lead  to  Melrose    and 

Abbotsford,   and  we  remember  the  George  as  a 

173 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

comfortable,  well-ordered  inn,  a  fit  haven  for  the 
end  of  a  strenuous  day.  There  are  several  good 
hotels  in  Melrose,  made  possible  by  the  ceaseless 
stream  of  tourists  bound  to  Abbotsford  in  summer- 
time. We  reach  the  George  after  the  dinner  hour, 
but  an  excellent  supper  is  prepared  for  us,  served 
by  a  canny  Scotch  waiter  clad  in  a  cleaner  dress- 
suit  than  many  of  his  brethren  in  British  country 
inns  are  wont  to  wear.  We  have  no  fault  to  find 
with  the  George  except  that  its  beds  were  not  so 
restful  as  one  might  wish  after  a  day  on  rough 
roads  and  its  stable-yard  garage  lacked  conven- 
iences. These  shortcomings  may  now  be  remedied, 
for  the  spirit  of  improvement  is  strong  among  the 
inns  of  tourist  centers  in  Scotland. 

The  abbey  is  but  a  stone's  throw  from  the  hotel 
and  one  will  never  weary  of  it  though  he  come  to 
Melrose  for  the  hundredth  time.  In  delicate  artis- 
tic touches,  in  beauty  of  design  and  state  of  pres- 
ervation as  a  whole,  it  is  quite  unrivalled  in  Scot- 
land. But  for  all  that  Melrose  would  be  as  un- 
frequented as  Dundrennan  or  Arbroath  were  it  not 
for  the  mystic  spell  which  the  Wizard  cast  over 
it  in  his  immortal  "Lay,"  and  were  it  not  under 
the  shadow  of  Abbotsford. 

Abbotsford!  What  a  lure  there  is  in  the  very 
name!  In  the  early  morning  we  are  coursing  down 

174 


SCOTT    COUNTRY    AND    HEART    OF    HIGHLANDS 

the  shady  lane  that  leads  to  the  stately  mansion  and 
reach  it  just  after  the  opening  hour.  We  are  in- 
deed fortunate  in  avoiding  a  crowd  like  that  which 
thronged  it  on  our  former  visit;  we  are  quite  alone 
and  the  purchase  of  a  few  souvenirs  puts  us  on  a 
friendly  footing  with  the  gray-haired  custodian. 
His  daily  task  has  become  to  him  a  labor  of  love 
and  he  speaks  the  words,  "Sir  Walter,"  with  a 
fervor  and  reverence  such  as  a  religious  devotee 
might  utter  the  name  of  his  patron  saint.  He  shows 
us  many  odd  comers  and  relics  which  we  missed 
before  and  tells  us  the  story  of  the  house,  with 
every  detail  of  which  he  is  familiar.  And,  indeed, 
it  is  interesting  to  learn  how  Scott  as  a  youth  ad- 
mired the  situation  and  as  he  gained  wealth  bought 
the  land  and  began  the  house.  Its  construction  ex- 
tended over  several  years  and  he  had  scarcely  pro- 
nounced it  complete  and  prepared  to  spend  his  old 
age  in  the  home  which  he  almost  adored,  when 
the  blow  fell.  Everything  was  swept  away  and 
Scott,  the  well-to-do  country  laird,  was  a  pauper. 
He  did  not  see  much  of  Abbotsford  in  the  few 
years  he  had  yet  to  live,  though  through  the  con- 
sideration of  his  creditors  he  remained  nominally  in 
possession.  His  days  were  devoted  to  the  task  of 
paying  a  gigantic  debt  which  he  conceived  himself 
honor-bound  to  assume,  though  he  might  easily 

175 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

have  evaded  it  by  taking  advantage  of  the  law. 
Reflecting — after  the  lapse  of  nearly  a  century — 
who  shall  say  that  the  world  is  not  vastly  the  richer 
for  its  heritage  of  the  sublime  self-sacrifice,  the  hero- 
ism and  flawless  integrity  of  Walter  Scott? 

The  Abbotsford  we  see  to-day  has  been  con- 
siderably altered  and  added  to  since  Scott's  time, 
though  the  rooms  shown  to  visitors  remain  precisely 
as  he  left  them.  The  estate,  considerably  dimin- 
ished, is  still  in  possession  of  the  family,  the  Hon. 
Mrs.  Maxwell-Scott,  the  great-granddaughter  of 
the  author,  being  the  present  owner.  She  is  her- 
self of  a  literary  turn  and  has  written  "The  Making 
of  Abbotsford,"  an  interesting  history  of  the  place. 
The  family  is  not  wealthy  and  it  was  announced  a 
few  years  ago  that  the  sale  of  the  estate  had  be- 
come necessary,  though,  happily,  this  was  avoided. 

Our  guide  tells  us  that  the  home  is  usually 
leased  during  the  "season"  each  year  for  three 
hundred  pounds  and  Americans  are  oftenest  the 
takers.  Both  the  house  and  grounds  are  well-cared- 
for  and  we  have  many  glimpses  of  smooth  green 
lawns  and  flower  gardens  from  the  windows  and 
open  doors.  The  river,  too,  is  near  at  hand  and 
lends  much  to  the  air  of  enchantment  that  envelops 
Abbotsford,  for  we  know  how  Scott  himself  loved 
the  "silver  stream"  so  often  referred  to  in  his 

176 


SCOTT    COUNTRY    AND    HEART    OF    HIGHLANDS 

writings.  Indeed,  as  we  leave  we  cannot  but  feel 
that  our  second  visit  has  been  even  more  delightful 
than  our  first — despite  the  novelty  of  first  impres- 
sions. 

On  our  return,  the  picturesque  old  Peel  tower 
at  Darnick  village  catches  our  eye.  It  stands  in 
well-kept  grounds,  the  smooth  lawn  studded  with 
trees  and  shrubs,  and  the  gray  stone  walls  and 
towers  are  shrouded  by  masses  of  ivy.  It  is  the 
most  perfect  of  the  few  remaining  Peel  towers  in 
Scotland — little  fortress-homes  of  the  less  important 
gentry  four  or  five  hundred  years  ago.  These 
towers  were  usually  built  in  groups  of  three,  ar- 
ranged in  triangular  form,  to  afford  better  oppor- 
tunity for  mutual  defense  against  an  enemy.  Scott 
in  his  "Border  Antiquities"  tells  something  of  these 
miniature  castles: 

"The  smaller  gentlemen,  whether  heads  of 
branches  or  clans,  or  of  distinct  families,  inhabited 
dwellings  upon  a  smaller  scale,  called  Peels  or 
Bastile-houses.  They  were  surrounded  by  an  en- 
closure, or  barmkin,  the  walls  whereof,  according 
to  statute,  were  a  yard  thick,  surrounding  a  space 
of  at  least  sixty  feet  square.  Within  this  outer 
work  the  laird  built  his  tower,  with  its  projecting 
battlements,  and  usually  secured  the  entrance  by 
two  doors,  the  outer  of  grated  iron,  the  innermost 

177 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

of  oak  clenched  with  nails.  The  apartments  were 
placed  directly  over  each  other,  accessible  only  by 
a  narrow  turn-pike  stair,  easily  blocked  up  or  de- 
fended." 

Darnick,  as  I  have  intimated,  is  the  best  pre- 
served of  the  towers  now  in  existence,  being  almost 
in  its  original  state,  and  it  has  very  appropriately 
been  adapted  as  a  museum  of  relics,  chiefly  of 
Scottish  history,  though  there  is  some  antique  fur- 
niture and  many  curious  weapons  from  abroad. 

As  we  follow  our  guide  about  the  cramped  little 
rooms  and  up  the  narrow,  twisting  stairways,  we 
cannot  but  think  that  the  place  is  much  more  like 
a  jail  or  prison  than  a  gentleman's  home — showing 
how  the  disturbed  conditions  of  the  country  af- 
fected domestic  life.  The  caretaker  is  an  unusually 
communicative  Scotchman,  well-posted  on  every- 
thing connected  with  Darnick  Tower  and  its  con- 
tents, and  proves  to  be  not  without  a  touch  of  senti- 
ment. Taking  from  the  glass  case  a  rare  old  silver- 
mounted  pistol,  he  places  it  in  the  hands  of  the 
small  boy  of  our  party.  "Now,  my  lad,  ye  can 
always  say  that  ye  have  held  in  your  ain  hands  a 
pistol  that  was  ance  carried  by  bonnie  Prince 
Charlie  himselV  And  we  all  agree  that  it  is  no 
small  thing  for  a  boy  to  be  able  to  say  that;  it  will 
furnish  him  with  material  for  many  flights  of  fancy 

178 


SCOTT    COUNTRY    AND    HEART    OP    HIGHLANDS 

— even  if  Prince  Charlie  never  saw  the  pistol. 
There  are  also  some  of  Mary  Stuart's  endless  em- 
broideries— we  have  seen  enough  of  them  to  stock 
a  good-sized  shop,  but  they  may  have  all  been 
genuine,  since  the  poor  queen  had  nothing  else  to 
do  for  years  and  years.  These  are  typical  of  Dar- 
nick's  treasures,  which,  with  the  rare  old  tower 
itself,  may  well  claim  an  hour  of  the  Abbotsford 
tourist's  time.  And  he  may  recall  that  Sir  Walter 
himself  was  greatly  enamored  of  the  old  Peel  and 
sought  many  times  to  annex  it  to  his  estate,  but  the 
owner  would  never  sell. 

"Auld  Reekie"  has  seldom  been  hospitable  to 
us  in  the  way  of  weather.  Of  our  many  visits — I 
forget  how  many — only  one  or  two  were  favored 
with  sunny  skies.  The  first  I  well  recall,  since  we 
came  to  the  old  city  on  our  national  holiday,  only 
to  find  the  temperature  a  little  above  freezing  and 
to  encounter  a  bitter  wind  that  seemed  to  pierce 
to  the  very  bone.  And  again  we  are  watching  the 
rain-drenched  city  from  our  hotel  window  and 
wondering  how  we  shall  best  pass  such  a  dull  day. 
We  are  familiar  with  the  show-places  of  the  town 
— we  have  seen  the  castle,  Holyrood,  John  Knox's 
house,  St.  Giles,  the  galleries,  the  University,  Scott's 
monument  and  his  town  house  on  Castle  Street 
where  "Waverley"  was  written — all  these  and 

179 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

many  other  places  of  renown  have  no  longer  the 
charm  of  novelty.  We  don  our  rain-proofs  and 
call  at  the  studio  of  an  artist  friend,  who  conducts 
us  to  the  Academy  exhibit,  where  we  discover  the 
beautiful  "Harvest  Time,  Strathtay,"  which  adorns 
this  book.  We  confess  a  weakness  for  antique- 
shops,  especially  those  where  a  slender  purse  stands 
some  show,  and  our  friend  leads  us  to  the  oddest 
curio-shop  we  have  seen  in  our  wanderings.  It  is 
entered  from  an  out-of-the-way  inner  court  by  a 
dark,  narrow  flight  of  stairs  and  once  inside  you 
must  pause  a  moment  to  get  your  bearings.  For 
piled  everywhere  in  promiscuous  heaps,  some  of 
them  reaching  to  the  ceiling,  is  every  conceivable 
article  that  one  might  expect  to  find  in  such  a  place, 
as  well  as  a  thousand  and  one  that  he  would  never 
expect  to  see.  From  a  dark  corner  issues  the  pro- 
prietor, an  alert,  gray-bearded  old  gentleman  who 
we  soon  find  is  an  authority  in  his  line  and,  strange 
to  say,  all  this  endless  confusion  is  order  to  him,  for 
he  has  no  difficulty  in  laying  his  hands  on  anything 
he  seeks.  He  shows  us  about  the  dimly  lighted 
place,  descanting  upon  his  wares,  but  making  little 
effort  to  sell  them.  We  are  free  to  select  the  few 
articles  that  strike  our  fancy — there  is  no  urging 
and  few  suggestions  on  his  part;  he  names  the 
modest  price  and  the  deal  is  completed.  When 

180 


SCOTT    COUNTRY    AND    HEART    OF    HIGHLANDS 

we  come  to  leave  we  *  surprised  to  find  that  we 
have  lingered  in  the  i_  leer  old  shop  a  couple  of 
hours. 

Edinburgh  shops,  especially  on  Princes  Street, 
are  handsome,  large  and  well-stocked  and  are  only 
second  to  t^  historic  shrines  with  the  average  tour- 
ist. The  l  n  A.  a  ^reat  publishing  center  and 
there  are  bookstores  where  the  bibliophile  might 
wish  to  linger  indefinitely.  Scotch  plaids  and  tar- 
tans are  much  in  evidence  wherever  textiles  are 
sold  and  jewelers  will  show  you  the  cairngorm  first 
of  all — a  yellow  quartz-crystal  found  in  the  Highland 
hills.  Such  things  are  peculiarly  Scotch  and  of 
course  are  in  great  favor  with  the  souvenir-seeking 
tourist. 

The  rain  ceases  towards  evening  and  from  our 
hotel  window  we  have  a  fine  prospect  of  the  city. 
It  is  clean  and  fresh  after  the  heavy  drenching  and 
glistens  in  the  declining  sun,  which  shines  fitfully 
through  the  breaking  clouds.  There  have  been 
many  poetical  eulogies  and  descriptions  since  Burns 
addressed  his  lines  to  "Edina,  Scotia's  Darling 
Seat,"  but  W.  E.  Henley's  "From  a  Window  in 
Princes  Street"  seems  to  us  most  faithfully  to  give 
the  impression  of  the  city  as  we  see  it  now: 
"Above  the  crags  that  fade  and  gloom 
Starts  the  bare  knee  of  Arthur's  seat: 

181 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

Ridged  high  against  the  evening  bloom, 
The  Old  Town  rises,  street  on  street; 
With  lamps  bejewelled;  straight  ahead 
Like  rampired  walls  the  houses  lean, 
All  spired  and  domed  and  turreted, 
Sheer  to  the  valley's  darkling  green; 
While  heaped  against  the  western  grey, 
The  Castle,  menacing  and  severe, 
Juts  gaunt  into  the  dying  day; 
And  in  the  silver  dusk  you  hear, 
Reverberated  from  crag  and  scar, 
Bold  bugles  blowing  points  of  war." 

We  watch  the  changing  view  until  the  twilight 
gathers  and  the  lamps  begin  to  appear  here  and 
there. 

We  are  bound  for  the  heart  of  the  Highlands. 
Our  route  is  to  lead  through  the  "Kingdom  of 
Fife"  to  Perth  and  from  thence  to  Braemar,  the 
most  famous  Scotch  inland  resort.  Having  already 
crossed  the  Forth  at  Queensferry,  we  decide  to  take 
the  Granton-Burntisland  boat,  which  crosses  the 
estuary  some  six  miles  farther  east.  We  find  ex- 
cellent provision  for  the  transport  of  motor  cars  and 
our  boat  carries  three  besides  our  own.  Landing 
at  Burntisland,  we  follow  the  coast  through  Kirk- 
caldy  to  Largo. 

The  attraction  at    the    latter    place    is    a    little 

182 


SCOTT    COUNTRY    AND    HEART    OP    HIGHLANDS 

antique-shop  close  by  the  roadside  in  the  village 
where  two  years  before  we  found  what  we  thought 
astonishing  bargains  in  old  silver,  and  our  judgment 
was  confirmed  by  an  Edinburgh  silversmith  to 
whom  we  afterwards  showed  our  purchases.  The 
shopman  had  little  of  his  wares  in  sight  when  we 
entered,  but  he  kept  bringing  out  article  after  article 
from  some  hidden  recess  until  he  had  an  amazing 
array  before  us.  There  was  old  silver  galore,  much 
of  it  engraved  with  armorial  devices  which  the 
dealer  said  he  had  purchased  at  public  auctions 
where  the  effects  of  old  families  were  being  turned 
into  cash — not  an  uncommon  occurrence  in  Britain 
these  days.  His  prices  were  much  less  than  those 
of  city  shops,  and  we  were  so  well  pleased  with 
our  few  selections  on  our  first  visit  that  we 
think  it  worth  while  to  visit  Largo  again. 
The  shopman  has  not  forgotten  us  and  our 
finds  are  quite  as  satisfactory  as  before. 
And  I  must  say  that  of  all  the  odds  and  ends  which 
we  have  acquired  in  our  twenty-thousand  miles  of 
motoring  in  Europe,  our  old  silver  gives  us  the 
greatest  satisfaction.  It  is  about  the  safest  purchase 
one  can  make,  since  the  hall-mark  guarantees  its 
genuineness  and  it  has  a  standard  value  anywhere. 
It  cannot  be  bought  to  advantage  in  cities  or  tourist 
centers,  where  high  prices  are  always  demanded. 

183 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

The  same  conditions  will  doubtless  prevail  in  the 
more  remote  country  villages  as  the  motor  car  brings 
an  increased  number  of  buyers. 

From  Largo  we  traverse  narrow  byroads  to 
Cupar,  the  county  town  of  Fife.  It  is  substantially 
built  of  gray  stone  and  slate,  but  is  not  of  much 
historic  importance.  The  surrounding  country  is 
well-tilled  and  prosperous  and  there  are  many  fine 
country  houses  which  may  occasionally  be  seen 
from  the  highroad.  We  hasten  on  to  Newburgh 
and  from  thence  to  Perth,  where  we  stop  for 
luncheon  at  the  splendid  Station  Hotel.  The  day 
has  so  far  been  clear  and  cool,  but  during  our  stop 
there  comes  a  sudden  dash  of  summer  rain  and  a 
sharp  drop  in  temperature — not  a  very  favorable 
augury  of  fine  weather  in  the  Highlands,  whither 
we  are  bound.  Perth  does  not  detain  us,  for  de- 
spite its  old-time  importance  and  antiquity,  scarce 
a  vestige  remains  of  its  once  numerous  monastery 
chapels,  castles  and  noblemen's  houses.  Perhaps 
the  iconoclastic  spirit  inspired  by  old  John  Knox, 
who  preached  in  Perth,  may  be  partly  responsible 
for  this,  or  it  may  be  as  a  Scotch  writer  puts  it: 
"The  theory  which  seems  to  prevail  in  the  Fair 
City  is  that  the  Acropolis  of  Athens  would  be  bet- 
ter out  of  the  way  if  grazing  for  a  few  goats  could 
be  got  on  the  spot;  and  the  room  of  the  historic 

184 


SCOTT    COUNTRY    AND    HEART    OF    HIGHLANDS 

buildings  was  always  preferred  to  their  company 
when  any  pretext  could  be  found  for  demolishing 
them."  The  home  ascribed  to  Scott's  "Fair 
Maid,"  restored  out  of  all  knowledge,  serves  the 
plebian  purpose  of  a  bric-a-brac  shop  and  there  is 
nothing  but  common  consent  to  connect  it  with  the 
heroine  of  the  novel.  The  fair  maid  indeed  may 
have  been  but  a  figment  of  the  great  writer's  im- 
agination, but  the  sturdy  armorer  certainly  lived  in 
Perth  and  became  famous  for  the  marvelous  shirts 
of  mail  which  he  wrought. 

Our  route  lies  due  north  from  Perth,  a  broad 
and  smooth  highway  as  far  as  Blairgowrie,  near 
which  is  another  original  of  the  "Tullyveolan"  of 
"Waverley" — the  second  or  third  we  have  seen. 
Here  we  plunge  into  the  Highland  hills,  following 
a  narrow  stone-strewn  road  which  takes  us  through 
barren  moors  and  over  steep  rough  hills,  on  many 
of  which  patches  of  snow  still  linger,  seemingly  not 
very  far  away.  Its  presence  is  felt,  too,  for  the  air 
is  uncomfortably  chilly.  The  low-hung  clouds  seem 
to  threaten  more  snow  and  we  learn  later  that  snow 
actually  fell  during  the  previous  week.  For  thirty 
miles  there  is  scarcely  a  human  habitation  save  one 
or  two  little  inns  which  have  rather  a  forlorn 
look.  The  road  grows  steadily  worse  and  the  long 
"hairpin  curves"  of  the  road  on  the  famous  "Devil's 

185 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

Elbow"  will  test  the  climbing  abilities  of  any 
motor. 

While  we  are  struggling  with  the  steep,  stony 
slopes  and  sharp  turns  of  the  Devil's  Elbow,  a  driv- 
ing rain  begins  and  pursues  us  relentlessly  for  the 
rest  of  the  day.  The  country  would  be  dreary 
enough  in  the  broad  sunshine,  but  under  present 
conditions  it  is  positively  depressing.  The  huge 
Invercauld  Arms  at  Braemar  is  a  welcome  sight, 
though  it  proves  none  too  comfortable;  so  cold  and 
cheerless  is  the  evening  that  every  part  of  the  hotel 
except  the  big  assembly  room,  where  a  cheerful 
fire  blazes  in  the  ample  grate,  seems  like  a  refrig- 
erator. The  guests  complain  bitterly  of  the  un- 
seasonable weather  and  one  lady  inquires  of  an- 
other, evidently  a  native: 

"What  in  the  world  do  you  do  here  in  winter 
if  it  is  like  this  in  July?" 

"Do  in  winter?  We  sit  and  hug  the  fireplace 
and  by  springtime  we  are  all  just  like  kippered  her- 
ring!" 

Braemar  has  lost  much  of  the  popularity  it  en- 
joyed in  Victoria's  day,  when  as  many  as  ten 
thousand  people  came  to  the  town  and  vicinity 
during  the  Queen's  residence  at  Balmoral,  some  ten 
miles  away.  She  was  fond  of  the  Highlands  and 
remained  several  weeks,  but  King  Edward  did  not 
186 


SCOTT    COUNTRY    AND    HEART    OF    HIGHLANDS 

share  her  liking  for  Balmoral  and  was  an  infre- 
quent visitor.  The  British  have  the  summer-resort 
habit  to  a  greater  extent  than  any  other  people  and 
Braemar  still  has  considerable  patronage  during  the 
season — from  June  to  September.  The  surround- 
ings are  quite  picturesque;  wooded  hills,  towering 
cliffs  and  dashing  streams  abound,  but  one  who  has 
seen  America  would  hardly  count  the  scenery  re- 
markable. There  is  nothing  to  detain  us  in  Brae- 
mar  and  the  next  morning  finds  us  early  on  the 
road.  The  day  promises  fine,  though  of  almost 
frosty  coolness,  and  the  roads  in  places  are  muddy 
enough  to  remind  us  of  home. 

Braemar  Castle,  a  quaint,  towerlike  structure 
near  the  town,  attracts  our  attention  and  we  find  no 
difficulty  in  gaining  entrance,  for  the  family  is 
away  and  the  housekeeper  is  only  too  anxious  to 
show  visitors  around  in  hopes  of  adding  to  her 
income.  It  proves  of  little  interest,  having  recently 
been  rebuilt  into  a  summer  lodge,  the  interior  being 
that  of  an  ordinary  modern  residence.  The  ex- 
terior, however,  is  very  striking  and  the  castle  was 
of  some  consequence  in  the  endless  wars  of  the 
Highland  clans. 

A  few  miles  over  a  road  overhung  by  trees  and 
closely  following  the  brawling  Dee  brings  us  in 
sight  of  Balmoral.  Our  first  impression  is  of  disap- 

187 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

/ 

pointment,  since  the  castle  seems  but  small  com- 
pared with  our  preconceived  ideas,  formed,  of 
course,  from  the  many  pictures  we  have  seen.  It 
has  no  traditions  to  attract  us  and  as  considerable 
formality  is  necessary  to  gain  admission  on  stated 
days  only,  we  do  not  make  the  attempt.  The 
situation,  directly  on  the  river  bank,  is  charming, 
and  the  park  surrounding  the  castle  is  well-groomed. 
We  hie  us  on  to  Ballater,  a  pretty,  well-built  vil- 
lage occupying  a  small  plateau  surrounded  by 
towering  hills.  But  a  mile  or  two  from  the  town 
is  the  house  where  Byron  as  a  boy  spent  his  va- 
cations with  his  mother,  and  there  are  many  refer- 
ences in  his  poems  to  the  mountains  and  lakes  of 
the  vicinity.  Lochnagar,  which  inspired  his  well- 
known  verses,  is  said  to  be  the  wildest  and  most 
imposing,  though  not  the  loftiest,  of  Scotch  moun- 
tains. It  is  the  predominating  peak  between  Brae- 
mar  and  Ballater.  For  some  miles  on  each  side  of 
Ballater  the  road  runs  through  pine  forests,  which 
evidently  yield  much  of  the  lumber  supply  in 
Britain,  for  sawmills  are  quite  frequent.  The  trees 
are  not  large  and  they  are  not  slaughtered  after 
the  wholesale  manner  of  American  lumbering. 

The  Palace  Hotel  in  Aberdeen  is  well-vouched- 
for  officially — by  the  Royal  Automobile  Club,  the 
Automobile  Association  and  an  "American  Touring 

188 


A    HIGHLAND    LOCH 
From    original    painting   by    the    late    John    MacWhirter,    R.    A. 


SCOTT    COUNTRY    AND    HEART    OP    HIGHLANDS 

Club"  which  is  new  to  us — and  we  reckon,  from 
the  first  mention  in  Baedeker,  that  it  takes  prece- 
dence of  all  others.  It  is  conducted  by  the  Great 
North  of  Scotland  Railway  and  is  quite  excellent 
in  its  way,  though  not  cheap  or  even  moderate  in 
rates.  At  dinner  our  inquisitive  waiter  soon  learns 
that  we  are  not  new  to  Aberdeen;  we  have  seen 
most  of  the  sights,  but  we  have  to  admit  that  we 
have  missed  the  fish-market. 

"Then  ye  haven't  seen  the  biggest  sight  in  the 
old  town,"  said  he.  "Seven  hunder  tons  of  fish 
are  landed  every  day  at  the  wharves  and  sold  at 
auction.  Get  down  early  in  the  morning  and  ye'll 
aye  have  a  fish  story  to  tell,  I'll  warrant." 

And  it  proves  an  astonishing  sight,  to  be  sure. 
A  great  cement  wharf  a  mile  or  more  in  length  is 
rapidly  being  covered  with  finny  tribes  of  all  de- 
grees, sorted  and  laid  in  rows  according  to  size. 
They  range  from  small  fish  such  as  sole  and  bloater 
to  huge  monsters  such  as  cod,  haddock  and  turbot, 
some  of  which  might  weigh  two  or  three  hundred 
pounds.  It  would  take  a  naturalist,  or  an  experi- 
enced deep-sea  fisherman,  to  name  the  endless  va- 
rieties; it  is  a  hopeless  task  for  us  to  try  to  remem- 
ber the  names  of  even  a  few  of  them.  The  harbor 
is  filled  with  fishing  craft  waiting  to  unload  their 
catch,  and  when  one  boat  leaves  the  wharf  its  place 

189 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

is  quickly  occupied  by  another.  And  this  is  not 
all  the  fish-show  of  Aberdeen,  for  herring  and 
mackerel  are  brought  in  at  another  dock.  We  re- 
turn to  our  hotel  quite  willing  to  concede  our 
waiter-friend's  claim  that  the  tourist  who  does  not 
see  the  fish-market  misses,  if  not  the  "biggest,"  as 
he  styled  it,  certainly  the  most  interesting  sight  in 
Aberdeen. 

We  linger  a  few  hours  about  the  town,  which 
is  one  of  the  cleanest  and  most  substantially  built 
it  has  been  our  good  fortune  to  see.  It  shows  to 
best  advantage  on  a  sunny  day  after  a  rain,  when 
its  mica-sprinkled  granite  walls  glitter  in  the  sun, 
and  its  clean,  granite-paved  streets  have  an  un- 
equalled attractiveness  about  them.  Granite  has 
much  to  do  with  Aberdeen's  wealth  and  stateli- 
ness,  for  it  is  found  in  unlimited  quantities  near  at 
hand  and  quarrying,  cutting  and  polishing  forms 
one  of  the  greatest  industries  of  the  place.  Civic 
pride  is  strong  in  Aberdeen  and  there  are  few  cities 
that  have  greater  justification  for  such  a  sentiment, 
either  on  account  of  material  improvement  or  thrifty 
and  intelligent  citizens. 


190 


XI 

IN    SUTHERLAND    AND   CAITHNESS 

It  is  a  wild,  thinly  inhabited  section — this 
strangely  named  Sutherland — lying  a  thousand 
miles  nearer  the  midnight  sun  than  does  New  York 
City;  but  its  silver  lochs,  its  clear,  dashing  streams 
and  its  unrivalled  vistas  of  blue  ocean  and  bold, 
rugged  islands  and  highlands  will  reward  the 
motorist  who  elects  to  brave  its  stony  trails  and 
forbiddingly  steep  hills.  Despite  its  loneliness  and 
remoteness,  it  is  not  without  historic  and  romantic 
attractions  and  its  sternly  simple  people  widely  scat- 
tered throughout  its  dreary  wastes  in  bleak  little 
villages  or  solitary  shepherd  cottages,  are  none  the 
less  interesting  and  pleasant  to  meet  and  know. 

The  transient  wayfarer  can  hardly  conceive  how 
it  is  possible  for  the  natives  to  wrest  a  living  from 
the  barren  hills  and  perhaps  it  does  not  come  so 
much  from  the  land  as  from  the  cold  gray  ocean 
that  is  everywhere  only  a  little  distance  away. 
Fishing  is  the  chief  industry  of  the  coast  villages, 
while  the  isolated  huts  in  the  hills  are  usually  the 
homes  of  shepherds.  The  population  of  Suther- 

191 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

land  proper  is  sparse  indeed  and  one  will  run  miles 
and  miles  over  the  rough  trails  which  serve  as  roads 
with  rarely  a  glimpse  of  human  habitation.  No 
railway  reaches  the  interior  or  the  western  coast  and 
the  venturesome  motorist  will  often  find  himself 
amid  surroundings  where  a  break-down  would  sure- 
ly mean  disaster — a  hundred  miles  or  more  from 
effective  assistance.  The  precipitous  hills  and  stony 
roads  afford  conditions  quite  favorable  to  mishap, 
and  for  this  reason  the  highways  of  Sutherland  are 
not  frequented  by  motor  cars  and  probably  never 
will  be  until  a  different  state  of  affairs  prevails. 
The  Royal  Automobile  Club,  however,  has  mapped 
a  fairly  practicable  route,  following  roughly  the 
coast  line  of  the  shire,  and  with  this  valuable  assist- 
ance, we  are  told,  a  considerable  number  of  mo- 
torists undertake  the  trip  during  the  course  of  the 
summer. 

The  name  Sutherland — for  the  most  northerly 
shire  of  a  country  which  approaches  the  midnight 
sun — strikes  one  queerly;  a  Teutonic  name  for  the 
most  distinctly  Celtic  county  in  Scotland — both 
anomalies  to  puzzle  the  uninformed.  But  it  was 
indeed  the  "land  of  the  south"  to  the  Norsemen 
who  approached  Scotland  from  the  north,  and 
landing  on  the  shores  of  Caithness,  they  styled  the 
bleak  hills  to  the  south  as  "Sudrland."  There  was 

192 


IN    SUTHERLAND    AND   CAITHNESS 

not  much  to  tempt  them  to  the  interior,  the  good 
harbors  of  Caithness  and  the  produce  of  its  fertile 
plains  being  the  objective  of  these  hardy  "despots 
of  the  sea."  The  county  of  Caithness  contains  the 
greater  part  of  the  tillable  land  north  of  Inverness 
and  this,  with  the  extensive  fisheries,  supports  a 
considerable  population.  The  traveler  coming  from 
the  south  finds  a  pleasant  relief  in  this  wide  fertile 
plain  with  its  farmhouses  and  villages  and  its  green 
fields  dotted  with  sleek  domestic  animals.  It  was 
this  prosperity  that  attracted  the  Norseman  in  olden 
days  and  he  it  was  who  gave  the  name  to  this 
county  as  well  as  to  Sutherland — Caithness,  from 
the  "Kati,"  as  the  inhabitants  styled  themselves. 

We  leave  the  pleasant  city  of  Inverness  on  a  gray 
misty  morning  upon — I  was  going  to  say — our 
"Highland  tour."  But  Inverness  itself  is  well  be- 
yond the  northern  limit  of  the  Highland  region  of 
Scott  and  the  wayfaring  stranger  in  Scotland  to-day 
can  hardly  realize  that  the  activities  of  Rob  Roy 
were  mostly  within  fifty  miles  of  Glasgow.  A  hun- 
dred years  ago  the  country  north  of  the  Great  Glen 
was  as  remote  from  the  center  of  life  in  Scotland 
as  though  a  sea  swept  between.  To-day  we  think 
of  everything  beyond  Stirling  or  Dundee  as  the 
"Wild  Scottish  Highlands,"  and  I  may  as  well 
193 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

adopt  this  prevailing  notion  in  the  tale  I  have  to 
tell. 

For  the  first  half  hour  the  splendid  road  is  ob- 
scured by  a  lowering  fog  which,  to  our  delight, 
begins  to  break  away  just  as  we  come  to  Cromarty 
Firth,  which  we  follow  for  some  dozen  miles.  The 
victorious  sunlight  reveals  an  entrancing  scene;  on 
the  one  hand  the  opalescent  waters  of  the  firth, 
with  the  low  green  hills  beyond,  and  on  the  other 
the  countryside  is  ablaze  with  the  yellow  broom. 
Dingwall,  at  the  head  of  the  firth,  is  a  clean,  thriv- 
ing town,  quite  at  variance  with  our  preconceived 
ideas  of  the  wild  Highlands;  and  a  like  revelation 
awaits  us  at  Tain,  with  its  splendid  inn  where  we 
pause  for  luncheon  on  our  return  a  few  days  later. 
It  is  built  of  rough  gray  stone  and  its  internal  ap- 
pointments as  well  as  its  service  are  well  in  keep- 
ing with  its  imposing  exterior.  But  an  excellent  inn, 
seemingly  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  needs  of  a 
town  or  the  surrounding  country,  need  surprise  no 
one  in  Scotland — such,  indeed,  is  the  rule  rather 
than  the  exception. 

At  Bonar  Bridge — the  little  town  no  doubt  takes 
its  name  from  the  sturdy  structure  spanning  Dor- 
rioch  Firth — we  cross  into  Sutherland  and  for  the 
next  hundred  miles  we  are  seldom  out  of  sight  of 
the  sea.  An  ideal  day  we  have  for  such  a  journey; 

194 


IN    SUTHERLAND   AND   CAITHNESS 

the  air  is  crystal  clear,  cool  and  bracing.  The  un- 
sullied skies  meet  a  still,  shimmering  sea  on  one 
hand  and  bend  in  a  wide  arch  over  gray-green  hills 
on  the  other.  Before  our  journey  ends  cloud  effects 
add  to  the  weird  beauty  of  the  scenes  that  greet 
our  eyes — a  play  of  light  and  color  sweeping  across 
the  mottled  sky  and  the  quiet  ocean.  We  are 
enchanted  by  one  particularly  glorious  view  as  we 
speed  along  the  edge  of  a  cliff  far  above  the  ocean 
that  frets  and  chafes  beneath;  a  bank  of  heavy 
white  clouds  is  shot  through  by  the  crimson  rays 
of  the  declining  sun;  it  seemingly  rests  on  the  sur- 
face of  the  still  water  and  is  reflected  with  startling 
brilliance  in  the  lucent  depths.  Every  mood  of  the 
skies  finds  a  response  in  the  ocean — gray,  steely- 
blue,  silver-white,  crimson  and  gold,  all  prevail  in 
turn — until,  as  we  near  our  destination,  the  sky 
again  is  clear  and  the  sea  glows  beneath  a  cloudless 
sunset. 

In  a  sheltered  nook  by  the  ocean,  which  here 
ripples  at  the  foot  of  a  bleak  hill,  sits  Golspie,  the 
first  village  of  any  note  after  crossing  Dornoch  Firth. 
It  has  little  to  entitle  it  to  distinction  besides  its  con- 
nection with  Dunrobin  Castle — the  great  Gothic 
pile  that  looms  above  it.  Dunrobin  is  the  seat  of 
the  Duke  of  Sutherland  and  Golspie  is  only  the 
hamlet  of  retainers  and  tradesmen  that  usually  at- 

195 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

taches  itself  to  a  great  country  seat.  It  is  clean  and 
attractive  and  its  pleasant  inn  by  the  roadside  at 
once  catches  our  eye — for  our  luncheon  time  is 
already  well  past.  And  there  are  few  country  inns 
that  can  vie  with  the  Sutherland  Arms  of  Golspie, 
even  in  a  land  famous  for  excellent  country  inns. 
A  low,  rambling  stone  building  mantled  with  ivy 
and  climbing  roses  and  surrounded  by  flowers  and 
green  sward,  with  an  air  of  comfort  and  coziness 
all  about  it,  mutely  invites  the  wayfarer  to  enjoy 
its  hospitality.  The  interior  is  equally  attractive 
and  there  are  evidences  that  the  inn  is  a  resort  for 
the  fisherman  and  hunter  as  well  as  for  the  tourist. 

It  is  of  little  consequence  that  luncheon  time  is 
two  hours  past;  the  Scottish  inn  keeps  open  house 
all  day  and  the  well-stocked  kitchen  and  sideboard 
stand  ready  to  serve  the  wayfarer  whenever  he 
arrives.  The  sideboard,  with  its  roast  beef,  mutton 
and  fowls,  would  of  itself  furnish  a  substantial  re- 
past; and  when  this  is  supplemented  by  a  salad, 
two  or  three  vegetables,  including  the  inevitable 
boiled  potatoes,  with  a  tart  or  pudding  for  dessert, 
one  would  have  to  be  more  particular  than  a  hun- 
gry motorist  to  find  fault.  The  landlady  person- 
ally looks  after  our  needs — which  adds  still  more 
to  the  homelikeness  of  the  inn — and  as  we  take  our 
leave  we  express  our  appreciation  of  the  entertain- 
196 


IN    SUTHERLAND    AND   CAITHNESS 

ment  she  has  afforded  us.  She  plucks  a  full-blown 
rose  from  the  vine  which  clings  to  the  gray  walls 
and  gives  it  to  the  lady  member  of  our  party, 
saying: 

"Would  you  believe  that  the  roses  bloom  on  this 
wall  in  December?  Indeed,  they  do,  for  Golspie 
is  so  sheltered  by  the  hills  and  the  climate  is  so 
tempered  by  the  ocean  currents  that  we  never  have 
really  severe  weather." 

And  this  is  nearly  a  thousand  miles  north  of  the 
latitude  of  New  York  City! 

The  day  is  too  far  advanced  to  admit  of  a  visit 
to  Dunrobin  Castle,  despite  the  lure  of  its  thou- 
sand years  of  eventful  history.  It  stands  on  a  com- 
manding eminence  overlooking  the  sea,  its  pinnacled 
turrets  and  battlements  sharply  fretted  against  the 
sky.  Its  style  savors  of  the  French  chateau,  though 
there  are  enough  old  Scottish  details  to  re- 
deem it  from  the  domination  of  the  foreign 
type,  and,  altogether,  it  is  one  of  the  state- 
liest of  the  homes  of  the  Highland  nobility.  It  has 
been  in  the  unbroken  possession  of  the  present 
family  for  nearly  a  thousand  years,  having  been 
originally  built  by  Robert,  Thane  of  Sutherland,  in 
1 098.  Its  isolation  no  doubt  saved  it  from  the  end- 
less sieges  and  consequent  ruin  that  so  many  ancient 
strongholds  underwent. 

197 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

From  Golspie  to  Wick  we  are  seldom  out  of 
sight  of  the  ocean  and  there  are  many  pleasing 
vistas  from  the  clifflike  hills  which  the  finely  engi- 
neered road  ascends  in  long  sweeping  curves.  The 
entire  road  from  Inverness  to  Wick  ranks  with  the 
best  in  Scotland,  but  beyond — that  is  another  story. 
The  villages  along  the  way  are  inhabited  by  fisher- 
men, many  of  whom  speak  only  Gaelic,  and  they 
are  always  civil  towards  the  stranger.  Especially 
do  we  notice  this  when  we  pass  groups  of  children; 
they  are  always  smiling  and  waving  welcome  in  a 
manner  that  recalls  in  sharp  contrast  the  sullen  little 
hoodlums  in  the  French  and  German  towns.  The 
country  houses,  though  small  and  plain,  are  clean 
and  solidly  built  of  stone.  Many  well-bred  domes- 
tic animals  are  to  be  seen,  especially  sheep.  In  this 
connection  I  recall  a  conversation  I  had  with  a 
young  Montana  ranchman  whom  I  met  on  a  train 
near  Chicago.  He  had  just  sold  his  season's  wool 
clip  in  that  city  and  realized  the  highest  price  of 
the  year — and  he  had  imported  his  stock  from 
Caithness,  where  he  formerly  lived. 

Wick  is  celebrated  for  its  herring  fisheries,  upon 
which  nearly  the  whole  population  of  about  twelve 
thousand  is  directly  or  indirectly  dependent.  It  is 
the  largest  town  north  of  Inverness  and  of  some 
commercial  importance.  The  artificial  harbor  was 
198 


IN    SUTHERLAND   AND   CAITHNESS 

built  at  an  immense  cost  and  when  the  fisher  fleet 
is  in  presents  a  forest  of  masts.  On  Mondays  the 
boats  depart  for  the  fishing  grounds,  most  of  them 
remaining  out  for  the  week.  Some  of  the  boats  are 
of  considerable  size  and  a  single  catch  may  comprise 
many  tons  of  herrings.  The  unsavory  work  of 
cleaning  and  curing  is  done  by  women,  who  come 
from  all  parts  of  the  country  during  the  fishing 
season. 

Logically,  Wick  should  mark  the  conclusion  of 
our  day's  journey,  which  is  of  unusual  length, 
and  the  huge  Station  Hotel  is  not  uninviting,  but 
we  hasten  farther,  to  fare — so  far  as  accommoda- 
tions are  concerned — very  considerably  worse. 
John  O'Groats  is  our  destination.  We  have  long 
been  fascinated  by  the  odd  name  at  the  far  north- 
ern extremity  of  the  map  of  Scotland — a  fascination 
increased  by  the  recurrence  of  the  name  in  Scotch 
song  and  story — and  it  pleases  our  fancy  to  pass 
the  night  at  John  O'Groats.  A  friendly  officer 
assures  us  that  we  will  find  an  excellent  hotel  at 
our  goal  and  with  visions  of  a  well-ordered  resort 
awaiting  our  arrival  we  soon  cover  the  dozen  or 
more  miles  of  level  though  bumpy  road  between 
Wick  and  the  Scotch  Ultima  Thule.  The  country 
is  green  and  prosperous — no  hint  of  the  rocky  hills 

199 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

and  barren  moors  that  have  greeted  us  most  of  the 
day. 

A  half  mile  from  the  tiny  village  of  John 
O'Groats — a  dozen  or  more  low  stone  huts — we 
come  to  the  hotel  and  our  spirits  sink  as  we  look 
about  us.  A  small  two-story  building  with  an 
octagonal  tower  faces  the  lonely  sea  and  it  is  soon 
evident  that  we  are  the  sole  guests  for  the  night. 
Two  unattractive  young  women  apparently  consti- 
tute the  entire  force  of  the  inn;  they  are  manager- 
esses, cooks,  waitresses,  chambermaids  and  even 
"porteresses,"  if  I  may  use  such  a  word,  for  they 
proceed  to  remove  our  baggage  and  to  carry  it  to 
our  room.  This  is  in  the  octagonal  tower,  fronting 
on  the  ocean,  and  is  clean  and  orderly;  but  the 
dinner  which  our  fair  hostesses  set  forth  precludes 
any  danger  of  gormandizing,  ravenously  hungry 
though  we  happen  to  be.  The  dining-room  occu- 
pies the  first  floor  of  the  octagonal  tower,  which 
stands  on  the  supposed  site  of  the  original  house 
of  John  O'Groat,  or  John  de  Groote,  the  Dutch- 
man whose  fame  is  commemorated  by  a  tradition 
which  one  must  hear  as  a  matter  of  course  if  he 
visits  the  spot. 

John  de  Groote,  a  wealthy  Hollander,  is  sup- 
posed to  have  established  himself  in  Caithness  in 
the  time  of  James  IV.  to  engage  in  commerce  with 

200 


IN    SUTHERLAND    AND   CAITHNESS 

the  natives.  As  he  was  a  person  of  importance, 
he  brought  with  him  a  number  of  retainers,  who 
held  an  annual  feast  in  celebration  of  their  arrival 
in  Scotland.  At  this  there  were  bickerings  and 
heart-burnings  as  to  who  should  occupy  "the  head 
of  the  table" — an  honor  that  was  made  much  of 
in  those  days.  Wise  old  John  de  Groote  pacified 
his  jealous  guests  as  best  he  could,  assuring  them 
that  at  their  next  gathering  all  should  be  equally 
honored  and  satisfied.  He  must  have  been  a  man 
of  influence,  for  his  enigmatical  assurance  seems  to 
have  been  accepted  by  all.  When  the  eight  petty 
chieftains  assembled  again  they  beheld  an  octagonal 
house  with  eight  doors  and  in  it  was  a  huge  octago- 
nal table  with  seats  at  each  side  for  the  jealous 
clansmen  and  their  retainers.  As  they  must  enter 
simultaneously  and  as  no  one  could  possibly  be 
exalted  above  his  fellows,  the  question  of  precedence 
could  not  arise.  And  so  John  O'Groat  gave  his 
name  to  eternal  fame — but  if  this  strange  domicile 
ever  existed,  all  trace  of  it  has  disappeared,  and  the 
question  of  precedence  does  not  trouble  our  little 
party  nearly  so  much  as  the  indifferent  dinner,  which 
we  make  but  a  poor  pretense  at  eating. 

One  will  hardly  find  a  lonelier  or  more  melan- 
choly scene — at  least  so  it  seems  to  us  this  evening 
— than  the  wide  sweep  of  water  confronting  us 

201 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

when  we  look  seaward  from  the  sandy  beach  that 
slopes  downward  from  the  inn.  Near  at  hand  is 
a  bold  headland — the  small  rocky  island  of 
Stroma — while  the  dim  outlines  of  the  southernmost 
Orkneys  rise  a  few  miles  away.  No  ship  or  sign 
of  life  is  to  be  seen  except  two  crab-fishers,  who 
are  rowing  to  the  little  landing-place.  The  beach 
is  littered  with  thousands  of  dead  crabs  and  masses 
of  seaweed  cling  to  the  wreckage  scattered  along 
the  water  line.  All  is  quiet  and  serene  as  the  night- 
long twilight  settles  down,  save  for  the  occasional 
weird  scream  of  some  belated  sea-bird.  The  sun 
does  not  set  until  after  nine  o'clock  and  on  clear 
nights  one  may  read  print  at  midnight  under  the 
open  skies.  And  it  is  with  an  odd  feeling,  when 
awakened  by  the  rising  sun  streaming  into  our  win- 
dows, that  I  find  on  looking  at  my  watch  that  the 
hour  of  three  is  just  past. 

At  the  risk  of  being  set  down  as  heathen  by 
the  natives,  who  observe  Sunday  even  more  strictly 
than  their  southern  brethren,  we  are  early  on  the 
road.  Our  breakfast,  hastily  prepared  by  our  host- 
esses, gives  us  added  incentive  for  severing  relations 
with  John  O'Groats.  We  settle  our  modest  score 
— our  inn  has  the  merit  of  cheapness,  at  least — 
act  as  our  own  porter — saving  a  shilling  thereby 
— and  soon  sally  forth  on  the  fine  road  to  Thurso. 

202 


IN    SUTHERLAND    AND   CAITHNESS 

The  glorious  morning  soon  effaces  all  unpleasant 
recollections.  The  road  runs  for  miles  in  sight  of 
the  sea,  which  shows  a  gorgeous  color  effect  in  the 
changing  light — deep  indigo-blue,  violet,  amethyst, 
sapphire,  all  seem  to  predominate  in  turn,  and  the 
crisp  breeze  shakes  the  shimmering  surface  into  mil- 
lions of  jewellike  ripples.  In  sheltered  nooks  under 
the  beetling  crags  of  the  shore  the  water  lies  a  sheet 
of  dense  lapis-lazuli  blue  such  as  one  sees  in  pic- 
tures but  seldom  in  nature.  On  the  other  hand 
are  the  green  fields,  which  evidence  an  unexpected 
fertility  in  this  far  northern  land. 

But  the  scene  changes — almost  suddenly.  Leav- 
ing the  low,  green  meadows  of  western  Caithness, 
we  plunge  into  the  dark,  barren  hills  of  Sutherland 
— a  country  as  lonely  and  forbidding  as  any  to  be 
found  within  the  four  seas  that  encircle  Britain. 
The  road — splendid  for  a  dozen  miles  out  of  Thurso 
— degenerates  into  a  rough,  rock-strewn  trail  that 
winds  among  the  hills,  often  with  steep  grades  and 
sharp  turns.  At  some  points  where  the  road 
branches  a  weather-worn  stone  gives  an  almost 
illegible  direction  and  at  others  there  is  nothing  to 
assist  the  puzzled  traveler.  At  one  of  these  it 
seems  clear  to  us  that  the  right-hand  road  must 
lead  to  Tongue,  and  with  some  misgiving  we  take 
it.  There  is  absolutely  no  human  being  in  sight — 

208 


ODD   CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

an  inquiry  is  impossible.  The  road  grows  so  bad 
that  we  can  scarce  distinguish  it  and  at  last  we 
catch  sight  of  a  shepherd-cottage  over  the  hill. 
Two  elfish  children  on  the  hilltop  view  us  with 
open-mouthed  wonder,  but  in  response  to  our  in- 
quiries flee  away  to  the  house.  The  shepherd 
comes  out,  Bible  in  hand;  he  has  no  doubt  been 
passing  the  morning  in  devotion  at  his  home,  since 
the  kirk  is  too  far  away  for  him  to  attend. 

"The  road  to  Tongue?  Ah,  an*  it's  a  peety. 
Ye  have  ta'en  the  wrang  turn  and  the  road  ye  are 
on  leads  to — just  nowhere." 

We  thank  him  and  carefully  pilot  our  car  back- 
ward for  half  a  mile  to  find  a  practicable  place 
to  turn  about. 

We  have  passed  a  few  little  hamlets  since  we 
left  Thurso — Melvich,  Strathy  and  Bettyhill — 
each  made  up  of  a  few  stone  huts  thatched  with 
boughs  or  underbrush  of  some  kind  and  though 
cleanly  and  decent,  their  appearance  is  poverty- 
stricken  in  the  extreme.  At  Bettyhill  we  pass  many 
people  laboriously  climbing  the  long  hill  to  the 
kirk  which  stands  bleakly  on  the  summit — the  en- 
tire population,  old  and  young,  appears  to  be  going 
to  the  service.  They  are  a  civil,  kindly  folk,  al- 
ways courteous  and  obliging  in  their  response  to  our 
inquiries,  though  we  think  we  can  detect  a  latent 
204 


5  g 


3! 


IN    SUTHERLAND    AND   CAITHNESS 

disapproval  of  Sunday  motoring — only  our  own 
guilty  consciences,  perhaps.  They  seem  sober  and 
staid,  even  the  youngsters — no  doubt  only  the 
Scotchman's  traditional  reverence  for  the  Sabbath; 
though  one  of  the  best  informed  Scotch  writers 
thinks  this  mood  is  often  temperamental — a  logical 
result  of  the  stern  surroundings  that  these  people 
see  every  day  of  their  lives.  For  Mr.  T.  F.  Hen- 
derson in  his  "Scotland  of  Today"  writes  of  the 
very  country  through  which  we  are  passing: 

"With  all  their  dreariness  there  is  something  im- 
pressive in  these  long  stretches  of  lonely  moorland, 
something  of  the  same  feeling  that  comes  over  one, 
you  fancy,  in  the  Sahara.  As  a  stranger  you  will 
probably  see  them  in  the  summertime.  There  is 
then  the  endless  weird  light  of  the  northern  sun- 
rise and  sunset,  there  is  the  charm  of  the  sunlight; 
and  nature  using  such  magic  effects  is  potent  to 
infuse  strange  attractions  into  the  wilderness  itself. 
But  the  infinite  gloom  of  the  days  of  winter,  the 
long  periods  of  darkness,  the  rain-cloud  and  the 
storm-cloud  sweeping  at  their  will  over  the  wild 
moorland  without  any  mountain  screen  to  break  the 
storm!  Can  you  wonder  that  men  who  spend  their 
lives  amid  such  scenes  become  gloomy  and  taciturn, 

and  that  sadness  seems  inseparable  from  such  sur- 
205 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

roundings,  and  poverty  inevitably  appears  twice  as 
cruel  and  harsh  here  as  elsewhere?" 

It  is  well  past  noon  when  the  blue  waters  of 
the  Kyle  of  Tongue  flash  through  the  rugged 
notches  of  the  hills  and  a  few  furlongs  along  the 
shore  bring  us  to  the  village  of  Tongue,  with  its 
hospitable  inn.  Though  Tongue  is  fifty  miles  from 
the  nearest  railway  station,  enough  lovers  of  the 
wild  come  here  to  make  this  pleasant,  well-ordered 
inn  a  possibility.  We  find  it  very  attractive  inside; 
the  July  day  is  fresh  and  clear  but  chilly  enough 
to  make  the  fire  burning  in  the  diminutive  grate  in 
the  drawing-room  very  acceptable  to  us  who  have 
never  become  really  acclimated  in  Britain.  But 
the  same  fire  is  evidently  intended  to  be  more  orna- 
mental than  useful,  for  the  supply  of  coals  is  ex- 
ceedingly limited  and  they  are  fed  into  the  grate 
in  homeopathic  doses.  An  Australian  lady — who 
with  her  husband,  we  learn  later,  is  on  a  honey- 
moon tour  of  Scotland — is  even  more  sensitive  to 
the  chill  than  ourselves  and  ends  the  matter  by 
dumping  the  contents  of  the  scuttle  on  the  fire  and, 
like  Oliver  Twist,  calling  for  more.  Oliver's  request 
possibly  did  not  create  greater  consternation  among 
his  superiors  than  this  demand  dismayed  our  hos- 
tess, for  coals  might  well  be  sold  by  troy  instead 
of  avoirdupois  in  Tongue.  The  supply  must  come 
206 


IN  SUTHERLAND  AND  CAITHNESS 

by  coast  steamer  from  the  English  mines  and  the 
frequent  handling  and  limited  demand  send  the 
price  skyward.  The  Australian  lady's  energetic 
act  insures  that  the  room  will  be  habitable  for  the 
rest  of  the  day — though  it  is  easy  to  see  that  some 
of  the  natives  think  it  heated  to  suffocation. 

At  dinner  our  host,  a  hale,  full-bearded  Scotch- 
man, sits  at  the  head  of  the  table  and  carves  for  his 
guests  in  truly  patriarchal  style.  The  meal  is  a 
satisfying  one,  well-cooked  and  served;  the  linen 
is  snowy  white  and  the  silver  carefully  polished. 
We  find  the  hotel  just  as  satisfactory  throughout; 
the  rooms  are  clean  and  well-ordered  and  the 
whole  place  has  a  homelike  air.  It  is  evidently  a 
haven  for  fishermen  during  the  summer  season  and 
these  probably  constitute  the  greater  number  of 
guests.  The  entrance  hall  is  garnished  with  many 
trophies  of  rod  and  gun  and,  altogether,  we  may 
count  Tongue  Inn  a  unique  and  pleasant  lodge  in 
a  lonely  land. 

The  following  day — it  is  our  own  national  holi- 
day— we  strike  southward  through  the  Sutherland 
moors.  The  country  is  bleak  and  unattractive, 
though  the  road  proves  better  than  we  expected. 
For  several  miles  it  closely  follows  the  sedgy  shores 
of  Loch  Loyal,  a  clear,  shimmering  sheet  of  water 
a  mile  in  width,  set  in  a  depression  of  the  moor- 

207 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

land  hills.  The  Sutherland  lochs  have  little  in 
their  surroundings  to  please  the  eye;  their  greatest 
charm  is  in  the  relief  their  bright,  pellucid  waters 
afford  from  the  monotony  of  the  brown  moors. 
There  are  many  of  these  lakes,  ranging  in  size  from 
little  tarns  to  Loch  Shin — some  seventy  miles  in 
length.  We  pass  several  in  course  of  our  morning's 
run,  and  cross  many  clear,  dashing  streams,  but 
there  is  little  else  to  attract  attention  in  the  forty 
miles  to  Bonar  Bridge. 

Lairg  is  the  only  village  on  the  way,  a  group 
of  cottages  clustered  about  an  immense  hotel  which 
is  one  of  the  noted  Scotch  resorts  for  fishermen. 
It  is  situated  at  the  southern  extremity  of  Loch 
Shin,  where,  strange  to  say,  fishing  is  free — not  a 
common  state  of  affairs  with  the  Scotch  lochs.  It  is 
famous  for  its  trout  and  salmon,  though  it  is  de- 
cidedly lacking  in  picturesqueness,  one  writer  de- 
scribing it  as  "little  better  than  a  huge  ditch." 

From  Bonar  Bridge  southward  we  retrace  the 
broad,  level  road  that  we  followed  out  of  Inverness, 
and  from  the  opposite  direction  the  green  and  thriv- 
ing countryside  presents  quite  a  new  aspect.  We 
have  often  remarked  that  it  is  seldom  a  hardship 
to  retrace  our  way  over  a  road  through  an  inter- 
esting country.  The  different  viewpoint  is  sure 
to  reveal  beauties  that  we  have  missed  before.  One 

208 


GLEN    AFFRICK.    NEAR   INVERNESS 
From    original    painting    by    the    late    John    MacWhirter,    R. 


IN  SUTHERLAND  AND  CAITHNESS 

cannot  complain  that  the  country  here  lacks  attrac- 
tions— there  are  many  famous  excursions  to  the 
lochs  and  glens  and  one  of  the  most  delightful  is 
the  ten-mile  drive  to  Glen  Affrick,  which  may  be 
taken  from  Beauly.  Mr.  MacWhirter's  picture 
shows  a  view  of  the  dashing  river — and  I  recall  that 
the  great  artist,  when  showing  me  the  original,  re- 
marked that  if  one  were  asked  to  guess,  he  would 
hardly  locate  Glen  Affrick  in  the  Scotch  Highlands, 
so  strongly  suggestive  of  the  Dark  Continent  is  the 
name. 


XII 

DOWN  THE  GREAT  GLEN 

That  we  had  once — under  the  guidance  of  that 
patron  saint  of  tourists,  Thos.  Cook — made  the 
regulation  boat  trip  down  the  Caledonian  Lakes 
and  Canal,  in  no  wise  lessens  our  eagerness  to  ex- 
plore the  Great  Glen  by  motor  car.  On  a  previous 
occasion  we  reluctantly  gave  up  the  run  from  Inver- 
ness to  Oban  because  of  stories  of  inconvenient  and 
even  dangerous  ferries;  but  recent  information  from 
the  Royal  Automobile  Club  shows  that  while  only 
a  few  attempt  the  journey,  it  is  entirely  practicable. 
The  English  motorist,  accustomed  to  perfect  roads 
and  adequate  ferry  service,  is  likely  to  magnify 
deviations  from  the  best  conditions,  which  would 
be  scarcely  remarked  upon  by  his  American  brother, 
to  whom  good  highways  are  the  exception  rather 
than  the  rule.  And  so  it  chanced  that  the  Great 
Glen  acquired  a  rather  unsavory  reputation  and  only 
a  few  Americans  or  an  occasional  venturesome  na- 
tive undertook  the  journey.  At  the  present  time, 
I  understand,  the  road  and  service  have  been  so 
210 


DOWN  THE  GREAT  GLEN 

improved  that  no  one  need  hesitate  in  essaying  this 
delightful  trip. 

Mr.  George  Eyre-Todd,  a  Scottish  author,  in  a 
recently  published  book  gives  some  descriptive  and 
historical  information  concerning  the  country  we  are 
about  to  explore: 

"Glen  More  na  h'  Albyn,  the  Great  Glen  of 
Scotland,  stretching  from  the  Moray  Firth  south- 
westward  to  the  Sound  of  Mull,  cuts  the  Scottish 
Highlands  in  two.  For  grandeur  and  variety  of 
scenery — mountain  and  glen,  torrent  and  waterfall, 
inland  lake  and  arm  of  the  sea — it  far  surpasses 
the  Rhine;  and  though  the  German  river,  with  its 
castled  crags  and  clustering  mountain-towns,  has 
been  enriched  by  the  thronged  story  of  many  cen- 
turies, its  interest  even  in  that  respect  is  fully  matched 
by  the  legends,  superstitions  and  wild  clan  memories 
of  this  great  lake  valley  of  the  north.  For  him 
who  has  the  key  to  the  interests  of  the  region  the 
long  day's  sail  from  Inverness  to  Oban  unrolls  a 
panorama  of  unbroken  charm. 

"The  Caledonian  Canal,  which  links  the  lakes 
of  this  great  glen,  was  a  mighty  engineering  feat 
in  its  day.  First  surveyed  by  James  Watt  in  1 773, 
at  the  instance  of  the  trustees  of  the  forfeited  estates, 
and  finally  planned  by  Telford  in  1804,  it  was 
begun  by  Government  for  strategic  purposes  during 

211 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

the  Napoleonic  wars,  and  when  finally  opened  in 
1847  had  cost  no  more  than  a  million  and  a  quar- 
ter sterling.  It  has  a  uniform  depth  of  eighteen  feet, 
and  ships  of  thirty-eight  feet  beam  and  a  thousand 
tons  burden  can  sail  through  it  from  one  side  of 
Scotland  to  the  other.  In  these  peaceful  times, 
however,  the  canal  is  very  little  used.  In  autumn 
and  spring  the  brown  sails  of  fishing-boats  pass 
through  in  flights,  and  twice  a  day  in  summer  the 
palace-steamers  of  David  Macbrayne  sweep  by  be- 
tween the  hills.  But  for  the  rest  of  the  time  the 
waters  lap  the  lonely  shores,  the  grey  heron  feeds 
at  the  burn  mouths,  and  sunshine  and  rain  come 
and  go  along  the  great  mountainsides,  exactly  as 
they  did  in  the  days  of  Culloden  or  Inverlochy. 

"The  canal  at  first  has  the  country  of  Clan 
Mackintosh,  of  which  Inverness  may  be  considered 
the  capital,  on  its  left.  At  the  same  time,  down  to 
Fort  Augustus,  it  has  the  Lovat  country  on  the 
right.  Glengarry,  farther  down,  was  the  head- 
quarters of  the  Macdonnells.  South  of  that  lies  the 
Cameron  country,  Lochaber  and  Lochiel.  And 
below  Fort  Williams  stretches  the  Macdonald  coun- 
try. All  these  clans,  in  the  '45,  were  disaffected  to 
Government,  and  followed  the  rising  of  Prince 
Charles  Edward." 

Inverness,  with  her  bracing  air  and  clear  river, 
212 


DOWN  THE  GREAT  GLEN 

her  beautiful  island  park,  well-stocked  shops  and 
wealth  of  romantic  associations,  will  always  tempt 
one  to  linger,  come  as  often  as  he  may.  It  is 
our  fourth  stop  in  the  pleasant  northern  capital; 
we  have  tried  the  principal  hotels  and  we  remem- 
ber the  Alexandra  most  favorably — though  one 
traveler's  experiences  may  not  be  of  great  value  in 
such  a  matter.  Individual  tastes  differ  and  a  year 
or  two  may  work  a  great  change  in  an  inn  for 
better  or  worse. 

Within  a  dozen  miles  of  Inverness  one  may  find 
many  historic  spots.  Few  will  overlook  Culloden 
Moor,  with  its  melancholy  cairn  and  its  memories 
of  the  final  extinguishment  of  the  aspirations  of  the 
Stuart  line.  Not  less  interesting  in  a  different  way 
is  Cawdor  Castle,  the  grim  thirteenth-century  pile 
linked  to  deathless  fame  in  Shakespeare's  "Mac- 
beth." There  are  drives  galore  to  glens  and  re- 
sorts and  you  will  not  be  permitted  to  forget  the 
cemetery,  in  which  every  citizen  of  the  town  seems 
to  take  a  lugubrious  pride.  Indeed,  it  is  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  burial  grounds  in  the  Kingdom. 
Crowning  a  great  hill  which  commands  far-reaching 
views  of  valley  and  sea,  it  lacks  nothing  that  art 
and  loving  care  can  lavish  upon  it. 

But  Inverness,  with  all  her  charm,  must  not  de- 
tain us  longer.  Our  journey,  following  the  course 

213 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

of  the  lakes  to  Oban,  begins  in  the  early  morning; 
the  distance  is  only  one  hundred  and  twenty  miles, 
but  they  tell  us  we  are  sure  to  experience  consid- 
erable delay  at  the  ferries.  It  is  a  dull,  misty  morn- 
ing and  the  drifting  fog  half  hides  the  rippling 
river  which  we  follow  some  miles  out  of  Inverness. 
By  the  time  we  reach  the  shores  of  Loch  Ness, 
the  sunlight  begins  to  struggle  through  the  mist 
which  has  enveloped  everything  and,  to  our  delight, 
there  is  every  promise  of  a  glorious  day. 

The  lake  averages  a  mile  in  width  and  for  its 
entire  length  of  nearly  twenty-five  miles  is  never 
more  than  a  few  score  yards  from  the  road.  It 
is  an  undulating  and  sinuous  road  and  one  of  the 
most  dangerous  in  the  Kingdom  for  reckless  drivers. 
Here  it  turns  a  sharp,  hidden  corner;  there  it  drops 
suddenly  down  a  short,  steep  declivity  into  a  dark 
little  glade;  at  times  it  winds  through  trees  that 
press  too  closely  to  allow  vehicles  to  pass,  and  again 
it  follows  the  edge  of  an  abrupt  cliff.  Such  a  road 
cannot  be  traversed  too  carefully,  but,  fortunately, 
to  anyone  with  an  eye  for  the  beauties  of  nature, 
there  is  no  incentive  to  speed.  Every  mile  of  the  lake 
presents  new  aspects — a  dark,  dull  mirror  or  a  glisten- 
ing sheet  of  silver,  and  again  a  smiling  expanse  of 
blue,  mottled  with  reflections  of  fleecy  white  clouds. 
In  one  place  it  shows  a  strange  effect  of  alternating 

214 


DOWN  THE  GREAT  GLEN 

bars  of  light  and  shade  sweeping  from  shore  to 
shore,  a  phenomenon  which  we  are  quite  unable  to 
understand.  About  midway  an  old  castle  rises 
above  the  dark  waters  which  reflect  it  with  all  the 
fidelity  of  a  mirror,  for  at  this  point  the  plummet 
shows  a  depth  of  seven  hundred  feet.  For  six  hun- 
dred years  Castle  Urquhart  has  frowned  above  the 
lake  and  about  it  has  gathered  a  long  history  of 
romantic  sieges  and  defenses,  fading  away  into 
myth  and  legend.  Its  sullen  picturesqueness  fur- 
nished a  theme  for  the  brush  of  Sir  John  Millais, 
who  was  a  frequent  visitor  to  the  Great  Glen  and 
an  ardent  admirer  of  its  scenery. 

As  we  pursue  the  lakeside  road,  we  find  our- 
selves contrasting  our  former  trip  by  steamer,  and 
we  agree  that  the  motor  gives  the  best  realization 
of  the  beauties  of  landscape  and  loch.  There  are 
points  of  vantage  along  the  shore  which  afford  views 
far  surpassing  any  to  be  had  from  the  dead  level 
of  the  steamer  deck;  the  endless  variations  of  light 
and  color  playing  over  the  still  surface  we  did  not 
see  from  the  boat.  There  may  be  much  of  fancy 
in  this;  everything  to  the  motor  enthusiast  seems 
finer  and  more  enchanting  when  viewed  from  that 
queen  of  the  road — the  open  car. 

The  old  chroniclers  have   it   that  St.    Columba 
traversed  the  Great  Glen  in  565  A.  D.  and  they 
215 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

declare  that  he  beached  his  boat  near  Kilchimien 
on  Loch  Ness  after  having  by  his  preaching  and 
miracles  converted  the  Pictish  kings.  This  is  the 
first  record  of  the  introduction  of  Christianity  into 
the  northern  Highlands. 

Fort  Augustus  marks  the  southern  extremity  of 
Loch  Ness  and  here  are  the  great  buildings  of  St. 
Benedict's  Abbey  and  School,  a  famous  Catholic 
college  patronized  by  the  sons  of  the  gentry  and 
nobility  of  that  faith.  The  fort  was  built  by  the 
English  a  couple  of  centuries  ago  as  a  base  of 
offense  against  the  adherents  of  the  Stuarts  in  the 
vicinity,  and  we  may  be  sure  that  the  fierce  High- 
landers did  not  permit  the  garrison  to  suffer  from 
inactivity. 

At  this  point  the  road  swings  across  the  canal 
and  follows  the  western  shores  of  Loch  Oich  and 
Loch  Lochy.  We  miss  the  trees  which  border 
Loch  Ness;  here  we  pass  at  the  foot  of  high,  bar- 
ren hills  over  which,  to  the  southward,  rises  Ben 
Nevis,  the  loftiest  of  Scotch  mountains.  There  is 
not  much  of  interest  until  we  reach  the  vicinity  of 
Fort  William  at  the  northern  end  of  Loch  Linnhe. 
As  we  approach  the  town  we  catch  glimpses  of 
the  ivy-clad  ruin  of  Inverlochy,  one  of  the  most 
ancient  and  romantic  of  northern  Scottish  castles. 
A  portion  of  the  structure  is  supposed  to  antedate 

216 


DOWN  THE  GREAT  GLEN 

the  eighth  century  and  it  was  long  the  residence  of 
a  line  of  Pictish  kings — kings,  indeed,  even  though 
their  subjects  were  but  a  handful  of  ill-clad  maraud- 
ers. In  any  event,  one  of  them,  King  Achaius, 
was  of  enough  importance  to  negotiate  a  treaty 
with  ambassadors  sent  by  Charlemagne.  It  would 
be  a  long  story  to  tell  of  the  sieges  and  sallies,  of 
the  fierce  combats  and  dark  tragedies  that  took 
place  within  and  about  the  walls  of  Inverlochy 
Castle;  for  in  all  its  thousand  years  it  saw  little  of 
peace  or  quiet  until  after  the  fight  at  Culloden;  and 
such  a  story  would  accord  well  with  the  air  of 
grim  mystery  that  seems  to  hover  over  the  sullen 
old  ruin  to-day.  Standing  on  the  verge  of  the  still 
water,  its  massive  round  towers  outlined  against 
the  rocky  sides  of  Ben  Nevis,  whose  snow-flecked 
summit  looms  high  over  it,  it  seems  the  very  ideal 
of  the  home  of  chivalry,  rude  and  barbarous  though 
it  may  have  been. 

Fort  William,  with  its  enormous  hotels,  shows 
the  usual  characteristics  of  a  Scottish  resort  town 
— but  the  attractions  which  bring  guests  to  fill 
such  hotels  are  not  apparent  to  us.  More  likely 
these  are  in  the  neighborhood  rather  than  in  the 
town  itself.  We  pause  here  in  an  endeavor  to  get 
some  authentic  information  concerning  the  ferry  at 
Ballachulish,  for  our  doubts  have  been  considerably 

217 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

aroused  about  it.  The  office  of  the  steamship  com- 
pany of  David  Macbrayne,  who  controls  nearly  all 
the  coastwise  shipping  in  North  Scotland,  seems  a 
likely  place  and  thither  we  hie  ourselves.  The 
canny  Scot  in  charge  assures  us  that  the  ferry  is 
exceedingly  dangerous — that  motors  are  transferred 
on  a  row-boat  and  some  day  there  will  be  a  dread- 
ful accident;  he  even  darkly  hints  that  something  of 
the  sort  has  already  occurred.  The  safe  and  sane 
thing  to  do  is  to  place  our  car  aboard  the  next 
canal  steamer,  which  will  land  us  in  Oban  in  the 
course  of  five  or  six  hours — and  it  will  cost  us  only 
three  pounds  plus  transportation  for  ourselves.  Shall 
he  book  us  and  our  car  for  the  boat? 

His  eagerness  to  close  the  deal  arouses  our  sus- 
picion— besides,  we  have  done  the  Caledonian  trip 
by  boat  before  and  are  not  at  all  partial  to  the 
proposed  plan.  It  occurs  to  us  that  the  proprietor 
of  a  nearby  garage  ought  to  be  as  well  informed 
on  this  matter  and  more  disinterested  than  Mr. 
Macbrayne's  obsequious  representative. 

"Cars  go  that  way  every  little  while,"  he  says. 
"Not  especially  dangerous — never  had  an  accident 
that  I  know  of." 

Thus  encouraged,  we  soon  cover  the  dozen  miles 
to  the  ferry.  Our  fine  weather  has  vanished  and  a 
drizzling  rain  is  falling  at  intervals.  At  the  ferry 
218 


DOWN  THE  GREAT  GLEN 

we  learn  that  the  crossing  can  be  made  only  at 
high  tide,  which  means  four  hours'  wait  amidst 
anything  but  pleasant  surroundings.  There  are 
two  vehicles  ahead  of  us — a  motor  and  a  small 
covered  wagon  about  which  two  miserably  dirty 
and  ragged  little  youngsters  play,  regardless  of  the 
steady  rain.  A  dejected  man  and  a  spiritless 
woman  accompany  the  wagon  and  soon  respond  to 
our  friendly  advances.  They  are  selling  linoleum 
made  in  Aberfeldy — traveling  about  the  country  in 
the  wagon,  stopping  at  cottages  wherever  a  bit  of 
their  commodity  is  likely  to  be  in  demand.  It  is  a 
pitiful  story  of  poverty  and  privation,  of  days  with- 
out sales  enough  to  provide  food,  and  of  cold,  wet 
nights  by  the  roadside.  If  the  end  of  the  trip  finds 
them  even  they  are  well  content,  but  more  often 
they  are  in  debt  to  the  makers  of  the  linoleum. 

There  are  thousands  of  others,  they  tell  us,  gain- 
ing a  precarious  living,  like  themselves,  though  of 
course  not  all  selling  the  same  commodity.  When 
they  see  our  annoyance  at  the  delay,  they  offer  to 
yield  us  their  turn  in  crossing,  which  we  gladly  ac- 
cept, for  it  affords  an  excuse  for  a  gratuity,  which 
we  feel  our  chance  acquaintances  sorely  need. 

In   the   meantime    the    tide    is    flowing     swiftly 
through    the    narrow   strait   which    connects  Loch 
Leven  with  the  wide  estuary  of  Loch  Linnhe  and 
219 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

our  boat  approaches  from  the  opposite  side.  Four 
men  are  rowing  vigorously  and  as  the  small  craft 
grates  alongside  the  slippery  granite  pier,  one  would 
never  choose  it  as  a  fit  transport  for  a  heavy  motor. 
It  is  about  twenty  feet  in  length  by  ten  or  a  dozen 
wide;  two  stout  planks  are  placed  crosswise  and 
two  more  form  a  runway  from  the  sloping  landing, 
and,  altogether,  the  outlook  is  rather  discouraging 
to  anyone  so  prejudiced  in  favor  of  the  terra  firma 
as  ourselves.  We  are  half  tempted  to  retrace  our 
journey  to  Fort  William,  but  fortunately,  the  two 
young  men  who  have  preceded  us  in  a  large  run- 
about furnish  an  object  lesson  that  proves  the  trick 
not  nearly  so  difficult  as  it  looks.  We  follow  suit 
in  our  turn  and  our  car,  by  a  little  careful  jockey- 
ing, is  soon  nicely  balanced  on  the  planks  in  the 
center  of  the  boat.  We  express  surprise  that  the 
added  weight  seems  scarcely  to  affect  the  displace- 
ment of  the  craft.  "O,  ay, — she'll  carry  twelve 
ton,"  says  one  of  the  men  who  overhears  us.  So 
the  two  tons  of  the  car  is  far  from  the  limit,  after 
all.  It  is  a  strong  pull,  well  out  of  the  direct  line 
in  crossing,  for  the  tide  is  running  like  a  mill-race 
and  would  sweep  us  many  furlongs  down  the  shore 
were  not  due  allowance  made  by  the  rowers.  The 
landing  is  easier  than  the  embarking,  and  we  are 
soon  away  at  something  more  than  the  lawful  pace 
220 


DOWN  THE1  GREAT  QLEiN 

for  Benderloch    Station,    where    another    crossing 
must  be  made. 

We  might  have  wished  to  take  the  right-hand 
road  to  Glencoe,  only  a  few  miles  from  Ballachulish 
— mournful  Glencoe,  with  its  memories  of  one  of 
the  darkest  deeds  that  stain  the  none  too  spotless 
page  of  Scottish  history.  For  here  the  bloody 
Cumberland,  acting  upon  explicit  orders  from  the 
English  throne,  sent  a  detachment  of  soldiers  under 
the  guise  of  friends  seeking  the  hospitality  of  Clan 
Macdonald,  which  received  them  with  open  arms. 
The  captain  of  the  troop  was  an  uncle  of  the  young 
chieftain's  wife,  which  served  still  farther  to  win 
the  utmost  confidence  of  the  unsuspecting  clansmen. 
For  two  weeks  the  guests  awaited  fit  opportunity 
for  their  dastardly  crime,  when  they  murdered  their 
host  in  the  very  act  of  providing  for  their  entertain- 
ment and  dealt  death  to  all  his  clan  and  kin,  re- 
gardless of  age  or  sex.  A  few  escaped  to  the  hills, 
only  to  perish  miserably  from  the  rigors  of  the 
Scottish  midwinter.  Such  is  the  sad  tale  of  Glen- 
coe, where  to-day  a  tall  granite  shaft  commemorates 
the  victims  of  the  treacherous  deed. 

A  hundred  tales  might  be  told  of  the  Great  Glen 
— true  tales — did  our  space  permit.  Here  Bonnie 
Prince  Charlie  marshalled  his  forces  and  made  his 
last  stand  in  his  struggle  for  the  throne  of  his  fathers. 

221 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

In  1 745,  at  Gairlochy,  near  Fort  William,  the  royal 
adventurer  organized  the  nucleus  of  the  army  which 
was  to  capture  Edinburgh  and  throw  all  the  King- 
dom into  consternation  by  its  incursion  into  Eng- 
land. Here  he  planned  a  battle  with  General 
Cope,  who  avoided  the  encounter,  a  move  which 
gave  great  impetus  to  the  insurrection.  Charles 
was  in  high  feather  and  passed  a  night  in  revelry 
at  Invergarry  Castle  with  the  Highland  chieftains, 
who  already  imagined  their  leader  on  the  highway 
to  the  British  throne.  Less  than  a  year  later  the 
prince  again  sought  Invergarry  in  his  flight  from 
Culloden's  fatal  field,  but  he  found  the  once  hos- 
pitable home  of  the  chief  of  Glengarry  empty  and 
dismantled  and  so  surrounded  by  enemies  that, 
weary  and  despairing  as  he  was,  he  still  must 
hasten  on.  Two  weeks  later,  after  a  score  of  hair- 
breadth escapes,  the  royal  fugitive  left  Scotland — 
as  it  proved,  forever. 

We  did  not  at  the  time  reflect  very  deeply  on 
these  bits  of  historic  lore;  the  rain  was  falling  and 
the  winding,  slippery  road  required  close  attention. 
Much  of  the  scenery  was  lost  to  us,  but  the  gloomy 
evening  was  not  without  its  charm.  The  lake 
gleamed  fitfully  through  the  drifting  mists  and  the 
brown  hills  were  draped  with  wavering  cloud  cur- 
tains. Right  behind  us  rose  the  mighty  form  of 


DOWN  THE  GREAT  GLEN 

Ben  Nevis,  on  whose  summit  flecks  of  snow  still 
lingered.  The  wildness  of  the  country  was  ac- 
centuated by  the  forbidding  aspect  of  the  weather, 
but  we  regretted  it  the  less  since  our  former  trip 
had  been  under  perfect  conditions. 

At  Benderloch  Station  we  found  a  railway  motor 
van  and  flat  car  awaiting  us,  in  response  to  our 
telephone  message  from  Ballachulish.  Our  motor 
was  speedily  loaded  on  the  car,  while  we  occupied 
seats  in  the  van,  an  arrangement  provided  for 
motorists  by  the  obliging  railway  officials.  All  this 
special  service  costs  only  fifteen  or  twenty  shillings; 
but  no  doubt  the  railroad  people  established  the 
rate  to  compete  with  the  ferry  across  Loch  Creran 
Inlet.  They  set  us  down  safe  and  sound  on  the 
other  side  of  the  estuary,  and  we  soon  covered  the 
few  remaining  miles  to  Oban,  where  we  needed  no 
one  to  direct  us  to  the  Station  Hotel,  for  we  learned 
on  a  former  visit  that  it  is  one  of  the  best-ordered 
inns  in  the  North  Country. 


223 


XIII 

ALONG  THE  WEST  COAST 

The  day  following  our  arrival  in  Oban  dawns 
clear  and  bright  with  that  indescribable  freshness 
that  follows  summer  rain  in  the  Highlands.  We 
find  ourselves  loath  to  leave  the  pleasant  little  town, 
despite  the  fact  that  two  former  visits  have  some- 
what detracted  from  the  novelty  of  the  surround- 
ings. We  could  never  weary  of  the  quiet,  land- 
locked harbor,  with  its  shimmering  white  sails  and 
ranges  of  green  and  purple  hills  beyond,  or  of  the 
ivy-clad  ruin  of  Dunolly  that  overhangs  the  waters 
when  looking  up  the  bay.  The  town  ascends  the 
steep  hill  in  terraces  and  a  climb  to  the  summit  is 
well  rewarded  by  the  splendid  view.  One  also 
sees  at  close  range  the  monstrous  circular  tower 
which  dwarfs  everything  else  in  Oban  and  which 
one  at  first  imagines  must  have  some  great  historic 
significance.  But  the  surmise  that  it  was  the  work 
of  ancient  Romans  in  an  effort  to  duplicate  the 
Coliseum  is  dashed  when  we  learn  that  Oban  is 
scarcely  a  hundred  years  old  and  that  "McCaig's 
Folly"  was  built  after  the  foundation  of  the  town. 

224 


ALONG  THE  WEST  COAST 

An  eccentric  native  conceived  the  idea  of  erecting 
this  strange  structure  "to  give  employment  to  his 
fellow-townsmen"  and  dissipated  a  good-sized 
fortune  in  the  colossal  gray-stone  pile.  Its  enor- 
mous proportions  can  only  be  realized  when  one 
stands  within  the  walls,  which  form  an  exact  circle 
possibly  two  hundred  feet  in  diameter  and  range 
from  fifty  to  seventy-five  feet  in  height. 

While  the  town  itself  is  modern,  the  immediate 
vicinity  of  Oban  does  not  lack  for  ancient  land- 
marks. Dunstaffnage,  with  its  traditions  of  Pictish 
kings,  is  antedated  by  few  Scottish  castles  and  Dun- 
oily  is  one  of  the  most  picturesque.  Kilchurn  and 
Duarte,  though  farther  away,  are  easily  accessible, 
and  the  former,  on  the  tiny  islet  in  Loch  Awe,  is 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  Scottish  ruins.  There 
are  few  drives  that  afford  greater  scenic  charm  than 
the  circular  trip  past  Loch  Feochan  and  Loch  Mel- 
fort,  returning  by  Loch  Awe,  and  there  is  no 
steamer  trip  in  the  Kingdom  that  excels  in  glorious 
scenery  and  historic  interest  the  eighty-mile  excur- 
sion to  Staffa  and  lona.  With  such  attractions  it 
is  not  strange  that  Oban  is  thronged  with  tourists 
during  the  short  summer  season. 

But  we  have  "done"  nearly  everything  in  our 
two  previous  visits  and  have  little  excuse  to  linger. 
The  only  road  out  of  the  town,  except  the  one  by 
225 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

which  we  came,  drops  southward  through  a  country 
we  have  not  yet  explored.  Brown  and  barren  hills 
greet  us  at  first,  relieved  here  and  there  by  the 
glitter  of  tiny  lakes  and  by  green  dales  with  flocks 
of  grazing  sheep.  A  touch  of  brilliant  color  is 
given  to  the  landscape  by  the  great  beds  of  blue 
and  yellow  flags,  or  fleur-de-lis,  which  cover  the 
marshy  spots  along  the  road.  For  several  miles  we 
skirt  the  shores  of  Loch  Feochan,  a  tidal  lake 
whose  blue-green  waters  are  at  their  height,  making 
a  beautiful  picture  with  the  purple  hills  as  a  back- 
ground. 

The  tiny  village  of  Kilninver  stands  at  the  inlet 
of  the  loch  and  here  the  road  re-enters  the  hills; 
there  is  a  long  steady  climb  up  a  steep  grade  ere 
the  summit  is  reached  and  in  places  the  narrow 
road  skirts  a  sharp  declivity,  sloping  away  hundreds 
of  feet  to  the  valley  beneath.  We  fortunately 
escape  an  unpleasant  adventure  here;  just  at  the 
summit  we  find  four  men  pushing  an  old-fashioned, 
high-wheeled  car  to  the  top  of  the  grade.  It  lost 
its  driving-chain,  they  tell  us,  and  as  the  brake 
failed  to  work,  narrowly  missed  dashing  down  the 
hill.  Had  it  gone  a  rod  farther  such  a  catastrophe 
would  surely  have  occurred;  not  very  pleasant  for 
us  to  contemplate,  since  at  few  places  is  there  more 

226 


ALONG  THE  WEST  COAST 

than  enough  room  to  pass  a  vehicle  driven  with 
care,  let  alone  one  running  amuck! 

The  descent  is  not  so  abrupt  and  a  long  steady 
coast  brings  us  to  the  Pass  of  Melfort,  where  a 
swift  mountain  stream  dashes  between  towering 
cliffs.  We  run  alongside  until  we  again  emerge  on 
the  sea-shore,  following  the  rugged  coast  of  Loch 
Melfort  for  some  miles.  The  road  is  rough  in 
places  and  passes  a  sparsely  populated  country  with 
here  and  there  an  isolated  village,  usually  harsh  and 
treeless.  Kilmartin  is  the  exception — a  rather  cozy- 
looking  hamlet  with  a  huge  old  church  surrounded 
by  fine  trees.  In  Kilmartin  Glen,  near  by,  are 
numerous  prehistoric  sculptured  stones  often  visited 
by  antiquarians.  Thence  to  Loch  Gilphead  the 
road  is  first-class;  it  crosses  over  the  Crinan  Canal, 
through  which  steamers  bound  for  Oban  and  Glas- 
gow pass  daily.  Loch  Gilphead  is  a  straggling 
fishing-town,  its  docks  littered  with  nets  and  the 
harbor  crowded  with  small  craft;  its  inn  does  not 
tempt  us  to  pause,  though  luncheon  hour  is  well 
past. 

For  twenty  miles  or  more  we  course  along  the 
wooded  shores  of  Loch  Fyne,  another  of  the  long 
narrow  inlets  piercing  the  west  Scottish  coast.  It 
is  a  beautiful  run ;  trees  overarch  the  road  and  partly 
conceal  the  gleaming  lake,  though  at  intervals  we 
227 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

come  upon  the  shore  with  an  unobstructed  view  of 
the  rugged  hills  of  the  opposite  side.  Near  the 
head  of  the  lake  is  Inverary,  the  pleasant  little  capital 
of  Argyleshire  and  as  cleanly  and  well-ordered  a 
village  as  one  will  find  in  Scotland.  The  Argyle 
Arms,  seemingly  much  out  of  proportion  to  the 
village,  proves  a  delightful  place  for  our  belated 
luncheon.  No  doubt  the  inn  is  necessary  to  ac- 
commodate the  retinues  of  the  distinguished  visitors 
at  Inverary  Castle,  which  frequently  include  mem- 
bers of  the  royal  family,  with  which  the  present 
duke  is  connected  by  marriage.  The  modern  castle 
stands  on  an  eminence  overlooking  town  and  loch 
and  a  smooth  lawn  studded  with  splendid  trees 
slopes  to  the  road.  The  design  is  Gothic  in  style, 
four-square,  with  pointed  round  towers  at  each 
corner,  and  the  interior  is  well  in  keeping  with  the 
magnificence  of  the  outside. 

The  road  we  follow  in  leaving  Inverary  closely 
hugs  the  shores  of  Loch  Fyne  for  some  miles  and 
but  a  short  way  out  of  the  town  passes  beneath  the 
ruin  of  Dunderawe  Castle.  Rounding  the  head  of 
the  loch,  always  keeping  near  the  shore,  we  strike 
eastward  through  the  range  of  giant  hills  that  lie 
between  Loch  Fyne  and  Loch  Lomond.  It  is  a 
barren  stretch  of  country;  the  road  is  rough  and 
stone-strewn,  with  many  trying  grades — dangerous 
228 


ALONG  THE  WEST  COAST 

in  places;  long  strenuous  climbs  heat  the  motor  and 
interminable  winding  descents  burn  the  brakes. 
There  is  little  to  relieve  the  monotony  of  the  wild 
moorlands  save  a  mountain  stream  dashing  far  be- 
low the  road  or  a  tiny  lake  set  in  a  hollow  of  the 
hills,  but  never  a  village  or  seldom  an  isolated  cot- 
tage for  miles.  Near  the  summit  is  a  rude  seat  with 
the  inscription,  "Rest  and  be  thankful,"  erected 
long  ago  for  the  benefit  of  travelers  who  crossed 
the  hills  on  foot.  The  poet  Wordsworth  made  this 
journey  and  described  it  in  one  of  his  sonnets  as 
"Doubling  and  doubling  with  laborious  walk," 
ending  in  a  grateful  allusion  to  the  resting  place. 

We  are  glad  to  see  the  waters  of  Loch  Lomond, 
glinting  with  the  gold  of  the  sunset,  flash  through 
the  trees,  for  we  know  that  the  lake-shore  road  is 
good  and  one  of  the  most  beautiful  in  Scotland. 
Miles  and  miles  it  follows  the  edge  of  the  island- 
dotted  loch,  which  broadens  rapidly  as  we  course 
southward.  The  waters  darken  to  a  steel-blue 
mirror,  but  the  hills  beyond  are  still  touched  with 
the  last  rays  of  the  sun — a  glorious  scene,  not  with- 
out the  element  of  romance  which  adds  to  the 
pleasure  one  so  often  experiences  when  contem- 
plating Old  Scotia's  landscapes.  It  is  only  by  grace 
of  the  long  twilight  that  we  are  able  to  reach  Glas- 
gow by  lamp-lighting  time.  Measured  in  miles,  the 

229 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

day's  run  was  not  extraordinary,  but  much  of  the 
road  was  pretty  strenuous  and  tire  trouble  has  been 
above  normal,  so  that  the  comfortable  hotel  of  the 
metropolis  does  not  come  amiss. 

After  a  perfunctory  round  in  Glasgow,  our 
thoughts  turn  toward  Ayr;  even  though  we  have 
already  made  two  pilgrimages  to  Burnsland,  the 
spell  is  unbroken  and  still  would  be  though  our 
two  visits  were  two  score.  We  will  not  follow  the 
Kilmarnock  route  again,  but  for  the  sake  of  variety 
will  go  by  Barrhead  and  Irvine  on  the  sea.  It  proves 
a  singularly  uninteresting  road;  Barrhead  is  mean 
and  squalid,  the  small  villages  are  unattractive,  and 
Irvine  is  a  bleak,  coal-shipping  town.  Irvine  would 
be  wholly  commonplace  had  not  the  poet  James 
Montgomery  honored  it  by  making  it  his  birthplace 
and  had  not  Bobby  Burns  struggled  nearly  a  year 
within  its  confines  to  earn  a  livelihood  as  a  flax- 
dresser.  The  ill  luck  that  befell  nearly  all  the  poet's 
business  ventures  pursued  him  here,  for  his  shop 
burned  to  the  ground  and  Irvine  lost  her  now  dis- 
tinguished citizen — though  she  little  knew  it  then, 
for  Burns  was  only  twenty-two.  Perhaps  it  was  a 
fortunate  fire,  after  all,  for  had  he  prospered  he 
might  have  become  more  of  a  business  man  than 
poet,  and  the  world  be  infinitely  poorer  by  the  ex- 
change. A  colossal  statue  recently  erected  com- 
230 


ALONG  THE  WEST  COAST 

memorates  his  connection  with  Irvine  and  again  re- 
minds one  how  Burns  overshadows  everything  else 
in  the  Ayr  country. 

The  Station  Hotel  affords  such  a  convenient  and 
satisfactory  stopping-place  that  we  cut  short  our 
day's  run  after  completing  the  forty  miles  from 
Glasgow.  There  is  really  not  much  in  the  town 
itself  to  detain  the  tourist;  we  wander  down  the 
main  street  and  cross  the  "Twa  Brigs;"  from  the 
beach  we  admire  the  broad  bay  and  the  bold  rocky 
"Heads  of  Ayr"  to  the  south.  In  the  distance  are 
the  dim  outlines  of  the  Emerald  Isle,  seen  only  on 
the  clearest  days,  and  nearer  at  hand  the  Isles  of 
Bute  and  Arran.  The  town  is  quite  modern;  there 
is  considerable  manufacturing  and  ship-building  and 
many  of  the  landmarks  of  the  time  of  Burns  have 
been  obliterated. 

Fortunate  indeed  is  it  that  the  shrines  at  Alloway 
have  not  shared  the  same  fate — a  third  visit  to 
these  simple  memorials  may  seem  superfluous,  but 
we  must  confess  to  a  longing  to  see  them  all  again. 
The  birthplace,  Kirk  Alloway,  the  monument,  the 
Brig  of  Doon  and  the  museum,  with  its  priceless 
relics  of  the  poet — all  have  a  perennial  interest  for 
the  admirer  of  Burns  and  Scotland.  The  bare 
simple  room  where  the  poet  was  born  has  a  wealth 
of  sentiment  that  attaches  to  few  such  places,  and 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

I  cannot  forbear  quoting  Mr.  George  Eyre-Todd's 
little  flight  of  fancy  inspired  by  this  same  primitive 
apartment: 

"One  can  try,"  he  writes,  "to  imagine  the  scene 
here  on  the  afternoon  of  that  wild  winter  day  when 
'a  blast  o'  Januar'  win' '  was  to  blow  'Hansel  in  on 
Robin.'  There  would  be  the  goodwife's  spinning- 
wheel  set  back  for  the  nonce  in  a  dark  corner; 
the  leglins,  or  milking-stools — on  which  the  bright- 
eyed  boy  was  to  sit  a  few  years  later — pushed  un- 
der the  deal  table;  the  wooden  platters  and  bowls 
from  which  the  household  ate,  arranged  in  the  wall 
rack,  and  the  few  delf  dishes  appearing  in  the  half- 
open  aumrie  or  cupboard;  while  from  the  rafters 
overhead  hung  hanks  of  yarn  of  the  goodwife's  spin- 
ning, a  braxie  ham,  perhaps,  and  the  leathern  parts 
of  the  horses'  harness.  Then,  for  the  actors  in 
the  humble  scene,  there  was  a  shadowy  figure  and 
a  faint  voice  in  the  deep-set  corner  bed;  the  inevi- 
table 'neighbour-woman'  setting  matters  to  rights 
about  the  wide  fireplace  in  the  open  chimney;  and 
William  Burness  himself,  whip  in  hand,  hurriedly 
getting  into  his  heavy  riding-coat  to  face  the  blast 
outside. 

"A  glance   at  the  face  of  the  great  eight-day 
clock,  a  whispered  word  and  a  moment's  pause  as 
he  bends  within  the  shadow  of  the  bed,  while  the 
232 


ALONG  THE  WEST  COAST 

neighbour  turns  industriously  to  the  fire,  and  then, 
with  a  pale  face  and  some  wildness  in  the  eyes, 
the  husband  makes  off,  over  the  uneven  floor  of 
flags,  and  the  door  closes  after  him.  In  a  minute 
or  two  the  tramp  of  the  hoofs  of  his  galloping  mare 
dies  away  in  the  distance,  and  the  women  are  left, 
waiting. 

"Behind  him  as  he  turned  from  his  door  on  that 
wild  day,  the  farmer  would  hear  the  Doon  thunder- 
ing down  its  glen,  and  the  storm  roaring  through 
the  woods  about  the  ruin  of  Alloway  Kirk,  which 
his  son's  wild  fancy  was  afterwards  to  make  the 
scene  of  such  unearthly  revels.  The  old  road  to 
Ayr  was  narrower  and  more  irregular,  between  its 
high  hedges,  than  the  present  one;  and  every  step 
of  the  way  had  some  countryside  memory  belonging 
to  it.  Behind,  by  its  well,  where  the  road  rose 
from  the  steep  river-bank  among  the  trees,  stood 
the  thorn  'where  Mungo's  mither  hanged  herselV 
In  the  park  of  Cambusdoon  an  ash  tree  still  marks 
the  cairn  'where  hunters  fand  the  murdered  bairn." 
Farther  on,  in  a  cottage  garden  close  by  the  road, 
is  still  to  be  seen  that  'meikle  stane,  where  drucken 
Chairlie  brak's  neck  bane.'  And  on  the  far  side 
of  the  Rozelle  wood,  a  hundred  yards  to  the  left 
of  the  present  road,  was  'the  ford  where  in  the 
snaw  the  chapman  smoor'd.' 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

"As  William  Burness  reached  the  stream  here  a 
singular  incident  befell  him.  On  the  farther  side, 
when  he  had  crossed,  he  found  an  old  woman  sit- 
ting. The  crone  asked  him  to  turn  back  and  carry 
her  over  the  river,  which  was  much  swollen  by  the 
rains.  This,  though  he  was  in  anxious  haste,  he 
paused  and  did,  and  then,  dashing  a  third  time 
through  the  torrent,  sped  off  on  his  errand  to  Ayr. 
An  hour  later,  on  returning  to  his  cottage  with  the 
desired  attendant,  he  found  to  his  surprise  the  gipsy 
crone  seated  by  his  own  fireside.  She  remained  in 
the  house  till  the  child  was  born,  and  then,  it  is 
said,  taking  the  infant  in  her  arms,  uttered  the  pro- 
phecy which  Burns  has  turned  in  his  well-known 
lines : 

'He'll  ha'e  misfortunes  great  and  sma,' 

But  aye  a  heart  abune  them  a', 

He'll  be  a  credit  till  us  a'; 

We'll  a*  be  proud  o'  Robin.' 

"Shortly  afterwards,  as  if  to  begin  the  fulfillment 
of  the  carline's  prophecy,  the  storm,  rising  higher 
and  higher,  at  length  blew  down  a  gable  of  the 
dwelling.  No  one  was  hurt,  however,  and  the 
broken  gable  of  a  clay  'bigging'  was  not  a  thing 
beyond  repair. 

"Such  were  the  circumstances  and  such  was  the 
scene  of  the  birth  of  the  great  peasant-poet.  Much 

234 


ALONG  THE  WEST  COAST 

change,  no  doubt,  has  taken  place  in  the  appearance 
both  of  the  cottage  and  of  the  countryside  since 
the  twenty-fifth  of  January  in  the  year  1  759 ;  but 
after  all  it  is  the  same  countryside,  and  the  cottage 
is  on  the  identical  spot.  Within  these  walls  one 
pictures  the  poet  in  his  childish  years: 

"There,  lonely  by  the  ingle-cheek 
He  sat,  and  eyed  the  spueing  reek 
That  filled  wi'  hoast-provoking  smeek 

The  auld  clay  biggin', 
And  heard  the  restless  rations  squeak 
Aboot  the  riggin'." 

And  in  this  rude  apartment  the  immortal 
scene  of  "The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night"  was 
enacted — and  here  it  occurred  to  us  to  ask  Mr. 
Dobson  to  give  us  his  conception  of  the  family  group 
at  worship — how  well  he  has  succeeded  the  accom- 
panying picture  shows.  We  will  be  pardoned,  I 
am  sure,  the  repetition  of  the  oft-quoted  lines  in 
connection  with  the  artist's  graphic  representation  of 
a  scene  already  familiar  the  world  over. 

"The  cheerfu*  supper  done,  wi'  serious  face, 
They,  round  the  ingle,  form  a  circle  wide; 

The  sire  turns  o'er,  with  patriarchal  grace, 
The  big  ha*  Bible,  ance  his  father's  pride; 
His  bonnet  rev'rently  is  laid  aside, 
235 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

His  lyart  haffets  wearing  thin  and  bare; 

Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion 

glide, 

He  wales  a  portion  with  judicious  care, 
And,  *Let  us  worship  God!'  he  says,  with 

solemn  air." 

In  this  same  ingle  nook  it  may  be  that  Burns 
spent  an  occasional  evening  with  Highland  Mary 
— for  Mary  Campbell  was  for  a  short  time  employed 
as  governess  in  the  vicinity,  and  it  is  not  unlikely 
that  she  was  a  frequent  guest  at  the  Burns  cottage 
— a  probability  that  has  supplied  Mr.  Dobson  with 
another  of  his  happiest  themes.  Associations  such 
as  these  are  more  than  the  scant  array  of  facts  given 
in  the  guide-books  concerning  the  old  cottage,  and 
they  give  to  the  bare  walls  and  rude  furnishings 
an  atmosphere  of  romance  that  that  no  familiarity 
can  dispel. 

From  Alloway  our  road  quickly  takes  us  to  the 
seashore,  which  we  are  to  follow  for  many  miles. 
It  is  a  glorious  day,  fresh  and  invigorating,  the  sky 
tranquil  and  clear,  and  the  sea  mottled  with  dun 
and  purple  mists  which  are  rapidly  breaking  away 
and  revealing  a  wide  expanse  of  gently  undulating 
water,  beyond  which,  in  the  far  distance,  the  stern 
outlines  of  Arran  and  Kintyre  gradually  emerge. 

It  is  a  delightful  run  along  the  coast,  which  is 
236 


ALONG  THE  WEST  COAST 

rich  in  associations  and  storied  ruins.  Athwart  our 
first  glimpse  of  the  ocean  stands  the  dilapidated  bulk 
of  Dunure  Castle,  an  ancient  stronghold  of  the  Ken- 
nedys, who  have  stood  at  the  head  of  the  Ayr- 
shire aristocracy  since  1466.  Indeed,  an  old-time 
rhymester  declared: 

'Twixt  Wigton  and  the  town  of  Ayr, 

Port-Patrick  and  the  Cruives  of  Cree, 
No  man  may  think  for  to  bide  there, 
Unless  he  court  Saint  Kennedie." 

But  to-day  the  traditions  of  the  blue-blooded 
aristocrats  of  Ayrshire  are  superseded  by  the  fame 
of  the  peasant-poet  and  the  simple  cottage  at  Allo- 
way  outranks  all  the  castles  of  the  Kennedys.  We 
are  again  reminded  of  Burns  at  Kirkoswald,  a  tiny 
village  a  few  miles  farther  on  the  road;  here  he 
spent  his  seventeenth  summer  and  in  the  churchyard 
are  the  graves  of  the  originals  of  Tarn  o'  Shanter 
and  Souter  Johnnie.  We  pass  in  sight  of  Culzean 
Castle,  a  turreted  and  battlemented  pile,  standing 
on  the  verge  of  a  mighty  basaltic  cliff  beneath  which 
the  sea  chafes  incessantly.  It  is  the  seat  of  the 
Marquis  of  Ailsa — one  of  the  Kennedys — built 
about  a  century  ago,  and  the  curious  may  visit  it 
on  Wednesdays. 

What  Culzean  lacks  in  antiquity  is  fully  supplied 
by  ruinous  Turnberry,  a  scant  five  miles  southward, 
287 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

associated  as  it  is  with  the  name  of  King  Robert 
Bruce,  who  may  possibly  have  been  born  within  its 
walls.  Here  it  was  that  Bruce,  in  response  to  what 
he  thought  a  prearranged  signal  fire,  made  his  cross- 
ing with  a  few  followers  from  Arran  to  attempt 
the  deliverance  of  his  country.  The  tradition  is 
that  the  fire  was  of  supernatural  origin  and  that  it  may 
still  be  seen  from  the  shores  of  Arran  on  the  anni- 
versary of  the  eventful  night.  This  incident  is  intro- 
duced by  Scott  into  "The  Lord  of  the  Isles:" 

"Now  ask  you  whence  that  wondrous  light, 

Whose  fairy  glow  beguiled  their  sight? — 

It  ne'er  was  known — yet  gray-hair'd  eld 

A  superstitious  credence  held, 

That  never  did  a  mortal  hand 

Wake  its  broad  glare  on  Carrick  strand; 

Nay,  and  that  on  the  self-same  night 

When  Bruce  cross'd    o'er,    still    gleamed    the 

light. 

Yearly  it  gleams  o'er  mount  and  moor, 
And  glittering  wave  and  crimson'd  shore — 
But  whether  beam  celestial,  lent 
By  Heaven  to  aid  the  King's  descent, 
Or  fire  hell-kindled  from  beneath, 
To  lure  him  to  defeat  and  death, 
Or  were  but  some  meteor  strange, 
Of  such  as  oft  through  midnight  range, 
238 


ALONG  THE  WEST  COAST 

Startling  the  traveller  late  and  lone, 

I  know  not — and  it  ne'er  was  known." 

Turnberry  is  very  ruinous  now  and  must  have 
been  rude  and  comfortless  at  its  best — another  re- 
minder that  the  peasants  of  to-day  are  better  housed 
and  have  more  comforts  and  conveniences  than  kings 
and  nobles  enjoyed  in  the  romantic  times  we  are 
wont  to  dream  about. 

Girvan  is  the  first  town  of  any  size  which  we 
encounter  on  leaving  Ayr,  a  quiet  trading-place 
close  on  the  shore.  Just  opposite  is  Ailsa  Craig, 
a  peculiar  rocky  island  twelve  miles  away,  though 
it  looks  much  nearer.  It  seems  very  like  Bass  Rock, 
near  Tantallon  Castle  on  the  east  coast,  though 
really  it  is  higher  and  vaster,  for  it  rises  more  than 
a  thousand  feet  above  the  sea.  It  is  the  home  of 
innumerable  sea-birds  which  wheel  in  whimpering, 
screaming  myriads  about  it.  A  solitary  ruin  indi- 
cates that  it  was  once  a  human  abode,  though  no 
authentic  record  remains  concerning  it. 

Southward  from  Girvan  we  traverse  one  of  the 
most  picturesque  roads  in  all  Scotland.  It  winds 
along  the  sea,  which  chafes  upon  huge  boul- 
ders that  at  some  remote  period  have  tumbled  from 
the  stupendous  overhanging  cliffs.  Among  the 
scattered  rocks  are  patches  of  shell-strewn  sand  on 
which  the  surf  falls  in  silvery  cascades  as  the  tide 
239 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

comes  rolling  landward.  Even  on  this  almost  wind- 
less day  the  scene  is  an  impressive  one  and  we 
can  only  imagine  the  stern  grandeur  of  a  storm 
hurling  the  waves  against  the  mighty  rocks  which 
dot  the  coast-line  everywhere.  Soon  the  road  be- 
gins to  ascend  and  rises  in  sweeping  curves  to  Ben- 
nane  Head,  a  bold  promontory  commanding  a  wide 
prospect  of  the  wild  shore  and  sea,  with  the  coast 
of  Ireland  some  forty  miles  away — half  hidden  in 
the  purple  haze  of  distance.  It  is  an  inspiring  view 
and  one  which  we  contemplate  at  our  leisure — 
thanks  to  the  motor  car,  which  takes  us  to  such 
points  of  vantage  and  patiently  awaits  our  pleasure 
— different  indeed  from  the  transitory  flash  from  the 
window  of  a  railway  car!  A  long  downward  glide 
takes  us  into  the  village  of  Ballantrae,  whose  rock- 
bound  harbor  is  full  of  fishing-boats.  Here  the 
road  turns  inland  some  miles  and  passes  through  a 
rich  agricultural  section.  In  places  apparently  the 
whole  population — men,  women  and  children — are 
employed  in  digging  potatoes,  of  which  there  is  an 
enormous  yield.  Hay  harvest  is  also  in  progress, 
often  by  primitive  methods,  though  in  the  larger 
fields  modern  machinery  is  used. 

The  road  brings  us  again  to  the  coast  and  a  half 
dozen  miles  along  the  shore  of  Loch  Ryan  lands 
us  in  the  streets  of  Stranraer.     It  is  a  modern-look- 
240 


MS 


H  c 
Who 


ALONG  THE  WEST  COAST 

ing  town  and  we  stop  at  the  King's  Arms  for  lunch- 
eon, which  proves  very  satisfactory.  There  is  a 
daily  service  of  well-appointed  steamers  from  Stran- 
raer  to  Larne,  a  distance  of  some  thirty  miles,  and 
much  the  shortest  route  to  Ireland.  The  peninsula 
on  which  Stranraer  and  Port  Patrick  are  situated  is 
reputed  to  have  the  mildest  and  most  salubrious  cli- 
mate in  Scotland  and  the  latter  place  is  gaining  fame 
as  a  resort.  There  are  many  great  country  estates 
in  the  vicinity,  notably  Lochinch,  the  estate  of  the 
Earl  of  Stair.  Near  this  is  Castle  Kennedy,  which 
was  burned  in  1715,  but  the  ruin  is  still  of  vast 
extent,  with  famous  pleasure  grounds  surrounding 
it.  The  motorist  may  well  employ  a  day  in  this  lo- 
cality and  will  be  comfortable  enough  at  Stranraer. 

There  is  no  nobler  highway  in  Scotland  than  the 
broad,  level  and  finely  engineered  road  from  Stran- 
raer through  Castle  Douglas  to  Dumfries.  It  passes 
through  as  beautiful  and  prosperous  a  country  as 
we  have  seen  anywhere — and  we  have  seen  much 
of  Scotland,  too.  At  Glenluce  we  make  a  short 
detour — though  it  proves  hardly  worth  while — to 
see  the  mere  fragment  of  the  old  abbey  which  the 
neighboring  vicar  is  using  as  a  chicken-roost.  It  is 
utterly  neglected  and  we  are  free  to  climb  over  the 
mouldering  walls,  but  there  is  no  one  to  pilot  us 
about  and  tell  us  the  story  of  the  abbey  in  its  pros- 
241 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

perous  days.  And  it  did  have  prosperous  days, 
for  it  was  once  of  great  extent  and  its  gardens  and 
orchards  were  reputed  one  of  the  sights  of  Scotland. 
Here  James  IV.  and  his  queen  came  on  one  of 
their  journeys  some  four  centuries  ago  and  the  record 
of  his  donation  of  four  shillings  to  the  gardener  still 
stands — a  pretty  slim  royal  tip,  it  seems  to  us  now. 

Newton-Stewart  is  beautifully  situated  on  the 
River  Cree,  whose  banks  we  follow  to  Wigtown 
Bay,  along  which  the  broad  white  road  sweeps  in 
graceful  curves.  Many  country  houses  crown  the 
green,  undulating  hills  and  we  catch  occasional 
glimpses  of  them  through  the  trees — for  the  parks 
are  all  well  wooded.  The  excellent  road  through 
Gatehouse  and  Castle  Douglas  we  cover  so  rapidly 
that  the  sun  is  still  high  when  we  reach  Maxwelton. 
Dumfries,  just  across  the  River  Nith,  is  our  objective 
and  it  occurs  to  us  that  there  is  still  time  to  correct 
a  mistake  we  made  on  a  previous  tour — our  failure 
to  see  Sweetheart  Abbey.  It  is  near  the  village  of 
New  Abbey  some  ten  miles  down  the  river,  but  on 
arriving  we  learn  that  the  abbey  is  not  shown  after 
six  o'clock.  A  visit  to  the  custodian's  home,  how- 
ever, secures  the  key  and  we  have  sole  possession 
of  the  ruin  during  the  quiet  twilight  hour. 

There  are  many  abbey  ruins  in  Scotland — and 
we  have  seen  the  most  famous — but  it  may  be  the 

242  ! 


ALONG  THE  WEST  COAST 

hour  of  our  visit,  quite  as  much  as  the  strange  story 
of  Sweetheart,  that  leaves  it  with  the  rosiest  memory 
of  them  all.     In  its  one-time  importance  as  well  as 
in  the  beauty  of  its  scattered  remnants,  it  is  quite  the 
peer  of  any  of  its  rivals,  but  none  of  these  have 
such  an  atmosphere  of  romantic  history.    For  Sweet- 
heart stands  forever  as  a  monument  of  love  and  con- 
stancy, as  intimated  in  its  very  name.     John  Baliol 
of  Barnard  Castle,  Yorkshire,  died  in  1269,  leaving 
his  widow,  Countess  Devorgilla,  to  mourn  his  loss. 
And  truly  she  did  mourn  it.    There  are  many  monu- 
ments   to    her    sorrow — Baliol    College,    Oxford, 
Dundrennan  Abbey  and  New  Abbey — or  Sweet- 
heart, as  it  is  now  known.      Both  of  the  latter  are 
in  Galloway,  for  Devorgilla  was  the  daughter  of 
the  Lord  of  Galloway  and  a  native  of  the  province. 
Upon  the  death  of  her  only  sister  she  became  sole 
heiress  to  the  vast  estates  of  her  father  and  when 
she  became  Baliol's  widow  she  was  easily  the  rich- 
est subject  in  all  Britain.    She  survived  her  husband 
for  twenty-one  years,  during  which  time  she  was 
engaged  principally    in    benevolent    work,    visiting 
many  parts  of  the  country.     Her  husband's  heart, 
embalmed  and  encased  in  a  silver  casket,  she  con- 
stantly carried  with  her  and  at  her  death  in  1289 
it  was  entombed  upon  her  breast.     She  was  buried 
in  New  Abbey,  which  she  built  as  a  memorial  to 

243 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

Baliol  and  a  resting  place  for  her  own  body.  When 
the  abbey  was  dismantled  her  tomb  was  despoiled 
— but  her  epitaph  still  exists  in  one  of  the  old 
chronicles : 

"In  Devorgil  a  sybil  sage  doth  dye  as 
Mary  contemplative,  as  Martha  pious. 
To  her,  O  deign,  high  King,  rest  to  impart 
Whom  this  stone  covers,  with  her  husband's 

heart." 

Such  is  the  story  of  the  beautiful  old  abbey, 
whose  roofless  and  windowless  walls  rise  before  us, 
the  harsh  outlines  hidden  by  the  drooping  ivy  and 
softened  by  the  fading  light.  It  is  more  ruinous 
and  fragmentary  than  Melrose  or  Jedburgh,  but 
enough  remains  to  show  its  pristine  artistic  beauty 
and  vast  extent.  The  sculptures  and  other  delicate 
architectural  touches  were  doubtless  due  to  work- 
men sent  by  the  Vatican,  since  the  Scotch  had 
hardly  attained  such  a  degree  of  skill  in  1270.  It 
is  wrought  in  red  sandstone,  which  lent  itself  pe- 
culiarly well  to  the  art  of  the  carver  and  which, 
considering  its  fragile  nature,  has  wonderfully  with- 
stood the  ravages  of  time  and  weather.  An  exten- 
sive restoration  is  in  progress  which  will  arrest  further 
decay  and  insure  that  the  fine  old  ruin  will  con- 
tinue to  delight  the  visitor  for  years  to  come. 

There  is  no  one  to  point  out  refectory  and  chapel 
244 


ALONG  THE  WEST  COAST 

and  other  haunts  of  the  ancient  monks — but  it  is 
just  as  well.  We  know  Sweetheart's  story  and 
that  is  enough,  in  the  silence  and  solemnity  of  the 
gathering  twilight,  to  make  the  hour  we  linger  an 
enchanting  one.  And  yet  the  feeling  of  sadness 
predominates,  as  we  move  softly  about  over  the 
thick  carpet  of  green  sward — sadness  that  this  splen- 
did memorial  to  a  life  of  sacrifice  and  good  works 
should  have  fallen  into  such  decay  that  the  very 
grave  of  the  benevolent  foundress  should  be  effaced! 
The  spell  is  broken  when  one  of  our  party  reminds 
us  that  it  is  growing  late;  that  we  may  miss  the 
dinner  hour  at  our  hotel,  and  we  regretfully  bid 
farewell  to  Sweetheart  Abbey.  We  are  glad  that 
the  royal  burgh  of  Dumfries  is  at  the  end  of  the 
day's  journey — an  unusually  long  one  for  us — for 
we  know  that  its  Station  Inn  is  one  of  the  most 
comfortable  in  Scotland. 


245 


XIV 

ODD    CORNERS   OP   LAKELAND 

Who  could  ever  weary  of  English  Lakeland? 
Who,  though  he  had  made  a  score  of  pilgrimages 
thither,  could  not  find  new  beauties  in  this  enchanted 
region?  And  so  in  our  southward  run  we  make  a 
detour  from  Carlisle  to  Keswick  by  the  way  of 
Wigton,  a  new  road  to  us,  through  a  green  and 
pleasant  country.  We  soon  find  ourselves  among 
the  hills  and  vales  of  the  ill-defined  region  which 
common  consent  designates  as  the  Lake  District. 
Rounding  the  slopes  of  Skiddaw — for  we  have  a 
rather  indirect  route — we  come  upon  a  vantage 
point  which  affords  a  glorious  view  of  Bassen- 
thwaite  Water,  glittering  like  a  great  gem  in  its  set- 
ting of  forest  trees.  We  have  seen  the  District 
many  times,  but  never  under  better  conditions  than 
on  this  clear,  shimmering  July  day.  The  green 
wooded  vales  lying  between  the  bold,  barren  hills, 
with  here  a  church-tower  or  country  mansion  and 
there  a  glint  of  tarn  or  river,  all  combine  to  make 
an  entrancing  scene  which  stretches  clear  and  dis- 
tinct to  the  silvery  horizon.  We  pause  a  short  space 

246 


ODD   CORNERS   OP  LAKELAND 

to  admire  it,  then  glide  gently  down  the  slope  and 
along  the  meandering  Derwent  into  Keswick  town. 
It  is  the  height  of  the  summer  season  here  and 
the  place  shows  unmistakable  marks  of  the  tourist- 
thronged  resort;  the  Hotel  Keswick,  where  we  stop 
for  luncheon,  is  filled  to  overflowing.  It  is  the 
most  beautifully  located  of  the  many  hotels  in  the 
town,  standing  in  its  own  well-cared-for  grounds, 
which  are  bedecked  with  flower-beds  and  shrub- 
bery. The  Keswick  is  evidently  a  favorite  with 
motorists,  for  we  found  many  cars  besides  our  own 
drawn  up  in  front.  It  is  a  pleasant,  well-conducted 
inn — everything  strictly  first-class  from  the  English 
point  of  view — with  all  of  which  the  wayfarer  is 
required  to  pay  prices  to  correspond. 

Keswick  is  anything  but  the  retired  village  of  the 
time  of  the  poet  Southey,  whose  home,  Greta  Hall, 
may  be  seen  on  an  eminence  overlooking  the  town. 
As  the  gateway  by  which  a  large  proportion  of 
tourists  enter  the  Lake  District,  and  as  a  resort 
where  a  considerable  number  of  visitors — mostly 
English — come  to  spend  their  vacations,  it  is  a 
lively  place  for  some  weeks  in  midsummer.  There 
is  not  much  of  consequence  in  the  town  itself  or  in 
the  immediate  vicinity.  It  is  the  starting-point,  how- 
ever, for  an  endless  number  of  excursions,  mostly  by 
coach,  for  the  railroad  does  not  enter  many  parts 

247 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

of  the  District  frequented  by  tourists.  Even  wagon- 
roads  are  not  numerous  and  the  enthusiast  who 
wishes  to  thoroughly  explore  the  nooks  and  corners 
must  do  much  journeying  on  foot. 

We  have  little  reason  for  choosing  the  coast  road 
in  our  southern  journey  through  Cumberland,  except 
the  very  good  one  that  we  have  never  traversed  it, 
while  we  are  familiar  with  the  splendid  highway 
which  follows  the  lakes  to  Lakeside  and  over  which 
runs  the  great  course  of  tourist  travel.  The  roads 
are  not  comparable  in  interest,  so  greatly  does  the 
lake  route  excel,  both  in  scenic  beauty  and  in  lit- 
erary and  historic  associations.  Still,  the  dozen 
miles  from  Keswick  to  Cockermouth  is  a  beautiful 
run,  passing  around  the  head  of  Derwentwater  and 
following  for  its  entire  length — some  four  miles — 
the  western  shore  of  Bassenthwaite  Water.  The 
road  winds  through  almost  unbroken  woodland  and 
we  catch  only  fugitive  glimpses  of  the  shimmering 
water  between  the  thickly  crowded  trunks  that  flit 
between  us  and  the  lake.  At  intervals,  however, 
we  swing  toward  the  shore  and  come  into  full  view 
of  the  gleaming  surface,  beyond  which  stretches  an 
array  of  wooded  parks,  surrounding  an  occasional 
country  seat.  Still  beyond  rise  the  stern  outlines  of 
Skiddaw,  one  of  the  ruggedest  and  loftiest  of  the 
lake  country  hills — though  as  a  matter  of  fact,  its 
248 


ODD   CORNERS   OF  LAKELAND 

crest  is  but  three  thousand  feet  above  the  sea.  It 
is  a  delightfully  quiet  road;  we  meet  no  other  way- 
farers and  aside  from  the  subdued  purr  of  the  mo- 
tor, there  is  no  sound  save  the  wash  of  the  wave- 
lets over  the  rocks  or  the  rustle  of  the  summer  breeze 
through  the  trees.  The  north  end  of  Bassenthwaite 
marks  the  limit  of  Lakeland  for  all  except  the  cas- 
ual tourist,  and  here  a  snug  little  wayside  inn,  the 
Pheasant,  affords  a  retreat  for  solitude-loving  dis- 
ciples of  Ike  Walton. 

Cockermouth  has  little  claim  to  distinction  other 
than  the  fact  that  the  poet  Wordsworh  was  bora 
here  a  little  more  than  a  century  and  a  half  ago. 
A  native  of  whom  we  inquire  points  out  the  large 
square  gray-stone  house,  now  the  residence  of  a  lo- 
cal physician.  The  swift  Derwent  flows  a  few  rods 
to  the  rear  and  the  flower-garden  runs  down  to  the 
river's  edge.  The  house  stands  near  the  highway 
and  is  no  exception  to  the  harsh,  angular  lines  that 
characterize  the  village.  It  is  in  no  sense  a  public 
^how-place  and  we  have  no  intention  of  disturbing 
the  Sunday-afternoon  quiet  of  the  present  occupants 
in  an  endeavor  to  see  the  interior.  Wordsworth's 
connection  with  the  house  ceased  at  the  death  of 
his  father,  when  the  poet  was  but  a  child  of  four- 
teen. His  young  mother — a  victim  of  consumption 
— had  laid  down  life's  burdens  some  six  years  ear- 

249 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

lier,  and  the  orphan  children  were  taken  to  the  home 
of  a  relative  at  Kendal. 

Perhaps  we  are  the  more  satisfied  to  pass  the 
old  house  with  a  cursory  glance  because,  if  I  must 
confess  it,  I  was  never  able  to  arouse  in  myself 
any  great  enthusiasm  over  the  poet  Wordsworth  or 
to  read  his  writings  except  in  a  desultory  way.  He 
never  had  for  me  the  human  interest  of  Byron, 
Burns,  Tennyson  or  many  other  great  lights  of  Eng- 
lish literature  I  might  name.  We  were  quite  will- 
ing to  assume  the  role  of  intruder  at  Somersby; 
we  made  more  than  one  unsuccessful  effort  before 
we  saw  Newstead,  and  three  pilgrimages  to  Allo- 
way  have  not  quenched  our  desire  to  see  it  again 
— but  we  are  conscious  of  little  anxiety  to  enter 
the  doors  of  the  big  square  house  at  Cockermouth. 
Perhaps  we  are  not  alone  in  such  feeling,  for  pil- 
grims to  the  town  are  few  and  a  well-known  Eng- 
lish author  who  has  written  a  delightful  volume  on 
the  Lake  District  admits  that  he  paid  his  first  visit 
to  Cockermouth  "without  once  remembering  that 
it  was  Wordsworth's  birthplace!"  His  objective 
was  the  castle,  a  fine  mediaeval  pile  which  over- 
looks the  vale  of  the  Derwent.  It  is  in  fair  preser- 
vation, having  been  inhabited  until  quite  recently. 
Like  so  many  Northland  fortresses,  it  has  its  legend 
of  Mary  Stuart,  who  came  here  after  landing  at 
250 


ODD   CORNERS   OF  LAKELAND 

Workington,  a  seaport  a  few  miles  distant.  She  had 
been  led  by  the  emissaries  of  Elizabeth  to  believe 
that  an  appeal  to  her  "sister's"  mercy  would  as- 
sure her  a  safe  refuge  in  England,  but  she  never 
drew  a  free  breath  in  all  the  years  she  was  to  live 
after  this  act  of  sadly  misplaced  confidence. 

"No  one,"  says  the  writer  just  referred  to, 
"would  wish  to  go  beyond  Cockermouth,"  and 
though  we  prove  one  exception  to  this  rule,  it  is 
a  fairly  safe  one  for  the  average  tourist,  since 
rougher,  steeper  and  less  interesting  roads  are  scarce 
in  England.  A  fairly  good  highway  runs  to 
Whitehaven,  a  manufacturing  port  on  the  Irish  Sea 
where,  according  to  an  English  historian,  "John 
Paul  Jones,  the  notorious  buccaneer,  served  his  ap- 
prenticeship, and  he  successfully  raided  the  place 
in  1 778,  burning  three  vessels."  Not  many  Ameri- 
cans have  visited  Whitehaven  since,  for  it  is  in  no 
sense  a  tourist  town.  We  pursue  its  main  street 
southward  until  it  degenerates  into  a  tortuous,  hilly 
lane  leading  through  the  bleak  Cumberland  hills. 
It  roughly  follows  the  coast,  though  there  are  only 
occasional  glimpses  of  the  sea  which  to-day,  half 
shrouded  in  a  silvery  haze,  shimmers  in  the  sub- 
dued sunlight.  The  road,  with  its  sharp  turns  and 
steep  grades,  is  as  trying  as  any  we  have  traversed 
in  England;  at  times  it  runs  between  tall  hedges  on 

251 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

earthen  ridges — an  almost  tunnellike  effect,  remind- 
ing us  of  Devon  and  Cornwall,  to  which  the  rough 
country  is  not  dissimilar.  Fortunately,  we  meet  no 
vehicles — we  see  only  one  motor  after  leaving 
Whitehaven — but  in  the  vicinity  of  the  villages  we 
keep  a  close  look-out  for  the  Sunday  pedestrians 
who  throng  the  road.  Our  siren  keeps  up  a  pretty 
steady  scream  and  the  natives  stare  in  a  manner  indi- 
cating that  a  motor  is  an  infrequent  spectacle.  We 
pass  through  several  lone,  cheerless-looking  towns, 
devoid  of  any  touch  of  color  and  wholly  lacking  the 
artistic  coziness  of  the  Midland  villages.  Egremont, 
Bootle,  Ravenglass  and  Broughton  are  of  this  type 
and  seemingly  as  ancient  as  the  hills  they  nestle 
among. 

The  ruin  of  a  Norman  castle  towers  above  Egre- 
mont; shattered,  bare  and  grim,  it  stands  boldly 
against  the  evening  sky.  Yet  it  is  not  without  its 
romance,  a  theme  which  inspired  Wordsworth's 
"Horn  of  Egremont  Castle."  For  tradition  has  it 
that  in  days  of  old  there  hung  above  the  gate  a 
bugle  which  would  respond  to  the  lips  of  none  but 
the  rightful  lord.  While  the  owner  and  his  younger 
brother  were  on  a  crusade  in  the  Holy  Land,  the 
latter  plotted  the  death  of  the  Lord  of  the  Castle, 
bribing  a  band  of  villains  to  drown  him  in  the 
Jordan.  The  rascals  claim  to  have  done  their  work 

252 


ODD   CORNERS   OP  LAKELAND 

and  Eustace,  with  some  misgivings,  hastens  home 
and  assumes  the  vacant  title,  though  he  discreetly 
avoids  any  attempt  to  wind  the  famous  horn.  Some 
time  afterwards,  while  engaged  in  riotously  cele- 
brating his  accession,  a  blast  of  the  dreaded  horn 
tells  him  that  his  brother  Hubert  is  not  dead,  and 
has  come  to  claim  his  own.  The  usurper  flees  by 
the  "postern  gate,"  but  years  afterward  he  returns 
to  be  forgiven  by  Sir  Hubert  and  to  expiate  his 
crime  by  entering  a  monastery.  Wordsworth  tells 
the  story  in  a  halting,  mediocre  way  that  shows  how 
little  his  genius  was  adapted  to  such  a  theme.  What 
a  pity  that  the  story  of  Egremont  was  not  told  by 
the  Wizard  with  the  dash  of  "Lochinvar"  or  the 
"Wild  Huntsman." 

There  is  a  fine  abbey  ruin  in  the  vale  of  the 
Calder  about  a  mile  from  the  main  road.  Calder 
Abbey  was  founded  in  the  twelfth  century  and  was 
second  only  to  Furness  in  importance  in  North- 
western England.  The  beautiful  pointed  arches 
supporting  the  central  tower  are  almost  intact  and 
the  cloisters  and  walls  of  the  south  transept  still 
stand.  Over  them  all  the  ivy  runs  riot,  and  above 
them  sway  the  branches  of  the  giant  beeches  that 
crowd  about  the  ruin.  It  is  a  delightfully  secluded 
nook  and  in  the  quiet  of  a  summer  evening  one 
could  hardly  imagine  a  spot  more  in  harmony  with 

253 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

the  spirit  of  monastic  peace  and  retirement.  Such 
is  the  atmosphere  of  romance  that  one  does  not 
care  to  ask  the  cold  facts  of  the  career  of  Calder 
Abbey,  and,  indeed,  there  is  none  to  answer  even  if 
we  should  ask  its  story. 

You  would  never  imagine  that  Ravenglass,  with 
its  single  street  bordered  by  unpretentious  slate- 
roofed,  whitewashed  houses  and  its  harbor,  little 
more  than  a  shifting  sand-bar,  has  a  history  run- 
ning back  to  the  Roman  occupation,  and  that  it 
once  ranked  in  importance  with  Chester  and  Car- 
lisle. Archaeologists  tell  us  that  in  Roman  times 
acres  of  buildings  clustered  on  the  then  ample  har- 
bor, where  a  good-sized  fleet  of  galleys  constantly 
rode  at  anchor.  Here  came  the  ships  of  the  civi- 
lized world  to  the  greatest  port  of  the  North 
Country,  bringing  olives,  anchovies,  wines  and  other 
luxuries  that  the  Romans  had  introduced  into 
Britain,  and  in  returning  they  carried  away  num- 
bers of  the  hapless  natives  to  be  sold  as  slaves  or 
impressed  into  the  armies.  The  harbor  has  evidently 
filled  with  silt  to  a  great  extent  since  that  day, 
scarcely  any  spot  being  covered  by  water  at  low 
tide  except  the  channel  of  the  Esk.  Many  relics 
have  been  discovered  at  Ravenglass,  and  the  older 
houses  of  the  town  are  built  largely  from  the  ruins 
of  the  Roman  city.  Most  remarkable  of  all  are  the 
254 


ODD    CORNERS   OF   LAKEIxA.ND 

remains  of  a  villa  in  an  excellent  state  of  preserva- 
tion, which  a  good  authority  pronounces  practically 
the  only  Roman  building  in  the  Kingdom  standing 
above  ground  save  the  fragments  that  have  been  re- 
vealed by  excavation. 

Ravenglass  has  another  unique  distinction  in  the 
great  breeding  ground  of  gulls  and  terns  which  al- 
most adjoins  the  place.  Here  in  early  summer 
myriads  of  these  birds  repair  to  hatch  their  young, 
and  the  spectacle  is  said  to  be  well  worth  seeing — 
and,  in  fact,  does  attract  many  visitors.  The  breed- 
ing season,  however,  was  past  at  the  time  of  our 
visit.  An  English  writer,  Canon  Rawnsley  of  Car- 
lisle, gives  a  graphic  account  of  a  trip  to  the  queer 
colony  of  sea-birds  during  their  nesting  time: 

"Suddenly  the  silence  of  the  waste  was  broken 
by  a  marvellous  sound,  and  a  huge  cloud  of  palpi- 
tating wings,  that  changed  from  black  to  white  and 
hovered  and  trembled  against  the  gray  sea  or  the 
blue  inland  hills,  swept  by  overhead.  The  black- 
headed  gulls  had  heard  of  our  approach  and  mightily 
disapproved  of  our  tresspass  upon  their  sand-blown 
solitude. 

"We  sat  down  and  the  clamour  died;  the  gulls 
had  settled.  Creeping  warily  to  the  crest  of  a  great 
billow  of  sand,  we  peeped  beyond.  Below  us  lay 
a  natural  amphitheatre  of  grey-green  grass  that 

255 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

looked  as  if  it  were  starred  with  white  flowers  in- 
numerable. We  showed  our  heads  and  the  flowers 
all  took  wing,  and  the  air  was  filled  again  with 
sound  and  intricate  maze  of  innumerable  wings. 

"We  approached,  and  walking  with  care  found 
the  ground  cup-marked  with  little  baskets  or  basket- 
bottoms  roughly  woven  of  tussock  grass  or  sea- 
bent.  Each  casket  contained  from  two  to  three 
magnificent  jewels.  These  were  the  eggs  we  had 
come  so  far  to  see.  There  they  lay — deep  brown 
blotched  with  purple,  light  bronze  marked  with 
brown,  pale  green  dashed  with  umber,  white  shad- 
ing into  blue.  All  colours  and  all  sizes;  some  as 
small  as  a  pigeon's,  others  as  large  as  a  bantam's.. 
Three  seemed  to  be  the  general  complement.  In 
one  nest  I  found  four.  The  nests  were  so  close 
to  one  another  that  I  counted  twenty-six  within  a 
radius  of  ten  yards;  and  what  struck  one  most  was 
the  way  in  which,  instead  of  seeking  shelter,  the 
birds  had  evidently  planned  to  nest  on  every  bit  of 
rising  ground  from  which  swift  outlook  over  the 
gull-nursery  could  be  obtained. 

"Who  shall  describe  the  uproar  and  anger  with 
which  one  was  greeted  as  one  stood  in  the  midst 
of  the  nests?  The  black-headed  gull  swept  at  one 
with  open  beak,  and  one  found  oneself  involuntarily 
shading  one's  face  and  protecting  one's  eyes  as  the 
256 


ODD    CORNERS   OP  LAKELAND 

savage  little  sooty-brown  heads  swooped  round  one's 
head.  But  we  were  not  the  only  foes  they  had  had 
tc  battle  with.  The  carrion  crow  had  evidently 
been  an  intruder  and  a  thief;  and  many  an  egg 
which  was  beginning  to  be  hard  set  on,  had  been 
prey  to  the  black  robber's  beak.  One  was  being 
robbed  as  I  stood  there  in  the  midst  of  the  hubbub. 

"Back  to  the  boat  we  went  with  a  feeling  that 
we  owed  large  apologies  to  the  whole  sea-gull  race 
for  giving  this  colony  such  alarm,  and  causing  such 
apparent  disquietude  of  heart,  and  large  thanks  to 
the  Lord  of  Muncaster  for  his  ceaseless  care  of  the 
wild  sea-people  whom  each  year  he  entertains  upon 
his  golden  dunes." 

It  is  growing  late  as  we  leave  Ravenglass  and  we 
wonder  where  we  shall  pass  the  night.  There  is 
no  road  across  the  rough  country  to  our  right  and 
clearly  we  must  follow  the  coast  for  many  miles  until 
we  round  the  southern  point  of  the  hills.  Then  the 
wide  sand  marshes  of  the  Duddon  will  force  us  to 
turn  northward  several  miles  until  we  come  to  a 
crossing  which  will  enable  us  to  continue  our  south- 
ward course.  Here  again  a  memory  of  Words- 
worth is  awakened,  for  did  he  not  celebrate  this 
valley  in  his  series  of  "Sonnets  to  the  Duddon?" 
There  is  no  stopping-place  at  Bootle  or  Millom  or 
Broughton,  unless  it  be  road-houses  of  doubtful 

257 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

character  and  we  hasten  over  the  rough  narrow 
roads  as  swiftly  as  steep  grades  and  numerous 
pedestrians  will  permit.  The  road  for  some  miles 
on  either  side  of  Broughton  is  little  more  than  a 
stony  lane  which  pitches  up  and  down  some  fright- 
ful hills.  It  is  truly  strenuous  motoring  and  our  run 
has  already  been  longer  than  is  our  wont.  The 
thought  of  a  comfortable  inn  appeals  strongly  indeed 
— we  study  the  map  a  moment  to  find  to  our  cer- 
tain knowledge  that  nothing  of  such  description  is 
nearer  than  Furness  Abbey,  still  a  good  many  miles 
to  the  south.  But  the  recollection  of  the  splendid 
ruin  is,  for  the  time  being,  quite  overshadowed  by 
our  memory  of  the  excellent  hotel,  which  I  must 
confess  exerts  much  the  greater  attraction.  The 
country  beyond  Broughton  has  little  of  interest,  but 
the  road  gradually  improves  until  it  becomes  a 
broad,  well-surfaced  highway  which  enables  us  to 
make  up  for  lost  time.  Shortly  after  sunset  we 
enter  the  well-kept  park  surrounding  the  abbey  and 
hotel.  We  have  come  many  miles  "out  of  our 
way,"  to  be  sure,  for  we  are  already  decided  on  a 
northward  turn  for  a  last  glimpse  of  Lakeland  to- 
morrow— but,  after  all,  we  are  not  seeking  shortest 
routes.  Indeed,  from  our  point  of  view,  we  can 
scarcely  go  "out  of  the  way"  in  rural  Britain;  some 

258 


ODD    CORNERS   OF   LAKELAND 

of  our  rarest  discoveries    have    been    made    unex- 
pectedly when  deviating  from  main-traveled  routes. 

On  the  following  day  we  pursue  familiar  roads. 
Passing  through  Dalton  and  Diversion,  we  ascend 
the  vale  of  the  Leven  to  Newby  Bridge  at  the 
southern  extremity  of  Windermere.  We  cannot 
resist  the  temptation  to  take  the  Lakeside  road  to 
Windermere  town,  though  it  carries  us  several  miles 
farther  north.  It  is  surely  one  of  the  loveliest  of 
English  roads,  and  we  now  traverse  it  the  third 
time — once  in  the  sunlight  of  a  perfect  afternoon, 
once  it  was  gray  and  showery,  and  to-day  the 
shadows  of  the  great  hills  darken  the  mirrorlike  sur- 
face, for  it  is  yet  early  morning.  The  water  is  of 
almost  inky  blackness,  but  on  the  far  side  it  sparkles 
in  the  sunlight  and  the  snowy  sails  of  several  small 
craft  lend  a  pleasing  relief  to  its  somber  hues.  The 
road  winds  among  the  trees  that  skirt  the  shore  and 
in  places  we  glide  beneath  the  overarching  boughs. 
At  times  the  lake  glimmers  through  the  closely 
standing  trunks,  and  again  we  come  into  the  open 
where  our  vision  has  full  sweep  over  the  gleaming 
expanse  of  dark  water.  We  follow  the  Lakeside 
road  for  six  miles  until  we  reach  the  outskirts  of  the 
village  of  Bowness;  here  a  turn  to  the  right  leads 
up  a  sharp  hill  and  we  are  soon  on  the  moorland 
road  to  Kendal.  It  shows  on  our  map  as  a 

259 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

"second-class"  road  and,  indeed,  this  description 
was  deserved  two  years  before.  It  is  a  pleasant 
surprise  to  find  it  smoothly  re-surfaced — an  excel- 
lent highway  now,  though  in  its  windings  across  the 
fells  it  carries  us  over  some  steep  grades.  On  either 
hand  lies  a  barren  and  hilly  country,  which  does 
not  improve  until  we  enter  the  green  valley  in 
which  the  town  is  situated.  It  is  a  charming  place, 
depending  now  for  its  prosperity  on  the  stretch  of 
fertile  country  which  surrounds  it.  Once  it  had 
numerous  factories,  but  changing  conditions  have 
eradicated  most  of  them  excepting  the  woolen  mills, 
which  still  operate  on  a  considerable  scale.  The 
ancient  castle — now  a  scanty  ruin — looms  high 
over  the  town:  "a  stern  castle,  mouldering  on  the 
brow  of  a  green  hill,"  as  Wordsworth,  who  lived 
many  years  in  the  vicinity,  describes  it.  It  might 
furnish  material  for  many  a  romance;  here  was  born 
Catherine  Parr,  the  queen  who  was  fortunate 
enough  to  survive  that  royal  Bluebeard,  Henry  VIII. 
It  escaped  the  usual  epitaph,  "Destroyed  by  Crom- 
well," since  it  had  long  been  in  ruin  at  the  time  of 
the  Commonwealth.  But  Cromwell,  or  his  follow- 
ers, must  have  been  in  evidence  in  Kendal,  for  in 
the  church  is  the  helmet  of  Major  Robert  Philipson 
— Robin  the  Devil — who  gained  fame  by  riding 
his  horse  into  this  selfsame  church  during  services 

260 


ODD    CORNERS   OP   LAKELAND 

in  search  of  a  Cromwellian  officer  upon  whom  he 
sought  to  do  summary  vengeance.  The  exploits  of 
this  bellicose  major  furnish  a  groundwork  for  Scott's 
'*Rokeby."  The  church  is  justly  the  pride  of  Ken- 
dal,  being  one  of  the  largest  in  England  and  of 
quite  unique  architecture.  It  has  no  fewer  than  five 
aisles  running  parallel  with  each  other  and  the  great 
breadth  of  the  building,  together  with  its  low  square 
tower,  gives  it  a  squat  appearance,  though  this  is  re- 
deemed to  some  extent  by  its  unique  design.  A 
good  part  of  the  building  is  more  than  seven 
hundred  years  old,  though  considerable  additions 
were  made  in  the  fifteenth  century.  In  the  tower 
is  a  chime  of  bells  celebrated  throughout  the  North 
Country  for  their  melody,  which  is  greatly  enhanced 
by  the  echoes  from  the  surrounding  hills. 

Kendal  serves  as  the  southernmost  gateway  of  the 
Lake  District,  the  railway  passing  through  the  town 
to  Windermere,  and  there  is  also  a  regular  coach- 
ing service  to  the  same  place.  When  we  resume 
our  journey  over  the  highway  to  the  south  we  are 
well  out  of  the  confines  of  English  Lakeland  and  I 
may  as  well  close  this  chapter  on  the  lesser  known 
corners  of  this  famous  region. 


261 


XV 

WE   DISCOVER  DENBIGH 

Night  finds  us  in  Chester,  now  so  familiar  as  to 
become  almost  commonplace,  and  we  stop  at  the 
Grosvenor,  for  we  know  it  too  well  to  take  chances 
elsewhere.  There  has  been  little  of  consequence  on 
the  highway  we  followed  from  Kendal,  which  we 
left  in  the  early  forenoon,  if  we  except  the  fine  old 
city  of  Lancaster,  where  we  stopped  for  lunch. 
And  even  Lancaster  is  so  dominated  by  modern 
manufactories  that  it  is  hard  to  realize  that  its  history 
runs  back  to  Roman  times.  It  has  but  few  land- 
marks left;  the  castle,  with  the  exception  of  the 
keep  tower,  is  modern  and  used  as  a  county  jail — 
or  gaol,  as  the  English  have  it.  St.  Mary's  Church, 
a  magnificent  fifteenth-century  structure,  crowns  the 
summit  of  the  hill  overlooking  the  city  and  from 
which  a  wide  scope  of  country  on  one  hand  and  the 
Irish  Sea  and  Isle  of  Man  on  the  other  may  be  seen 
on  clear  days. 

Preston,  Wigan  and  Warrington  are  manufac- 
turing towns  stretching  along  the  road  at  intervals 
of  fifteen  or  twenty  miles  and  ranging  in  population 
262 


WE  DISCOVER  DENBIGH 

around  one  hundred  thousand  each.  Their  out- 
skirts merge  into  villages  and  for  many  miles  it  was 
almost  as  if  we  traveled  through  a  continuous  city. 
The  houses  crowd  closely  on  the  street,  which  was 
often  thronged  with  children,  making  slow  and 
careful  driving  imperative.  The  pavements  in  the 
larger  towns  are  excellent  and  the  streets  of  the  vil- 
lages free  from  filth — a  marked  contrast  to  what  we 
saw  on  the  Continent.  Shortly  after  leaving  War- 
rington  we  crossed  the  Manchester  Ship  Canal,  by 
which  ocean-going  vessels  are  able  to  reach  that 
city.  From  thence  to  Chester  our  run  was  through 
a  pretty  rural  section,  over  an  excellent  road. 

Chester  is  crowded  even  more  than  usual.  An 
historical  pageant  is  to  take  place  during  the  week 
and  many  sightseers  are  already  on  the  ground. 
Only  our  previous  acquaintance  enables  us  to  se- 
cure rooms  at  the  Grosvenor,  since  would-be  guests 
are  hourly  being  turned  away.  Under  such  condi- 
tions we  do  not  care  to  linger  and  after  a  saunter 
along  the  "rows"  in  the  morning  we  are  ready  for 
the  road.  We  have  not  decided  on  our  route — 
perhaps  we  may  as  well  return  to  London  and  pre- 
pare for  the  trip  to  Land's  End  which  we  have  in 
mind.  A  glance  at  the  map  shows  Conway  within 
easy  distance.  Few  places  have  exerted  so  great 
a  fascination  for  us  as  the  little  Welsh  town — yes, 

263 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

we  will  sojourn  a  day  or  two  in  Conway  and  we 
may  as  well  go  by  a  route  new  to  us.  We  will  take 
the  road  through  Mold  and  Denbigh,  though  it 
never  occurs  to  us  that  either  of  them  deserves  more 
than  a  passing  glance. 

The  first  glimpse  of  Denbigh  arouses  our  curi- 
osity. A  vast  ivy-mantled  ruin  surmounts  a  steep 
hill  rising  abruptly  from  the  vale  of  the  Clwyd, 
while  the  gray  monotone  of  the  slate  roofs  and  stone 
walls  of  the  old  town  covers  the  slopes.  The  noble 
bulk  and  tall  spire  of  the  church  occupies  the  fore- 
ground and,  indeed,  as  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson  wrote 
in  1 774,  "Denbigh  is  not  a  mean  town,"  if  one  may 
judge  by  its  aspect  from  a  little  distance.  The  first 
view  awakens  a  lively  desire  for  closer  acquaintance 
and  soon  we  are  ascending  the  long  steep  street 
that  leads  to  the  castle — for  the  castle  is  naturally 
the  first  objective  of  the  newcomer  in  Denbigh. 
The  hill  rises  five  hundred  feet  above  the  level  of 
the  plain  and  the  ascent,  despite  its  many  windings, 
is  steep  enough  to  change  the  merry  hum  of  our 
motor  to  a  low  determined  growl  ere  we  pause  be- 
fore the  grim  old  gateway  in  the  fragment  of  the 
keep  tower. 

We  are  fortunate  in  finding  an  intelligent  custo- 
dian in  charge,  who  hastens  to  inform  us  that  he 
himself  is  an  American  citizen,  having  been  natural- 

264 


WE  DISCOVER  DENBIGH 

ized  during  a  sojourn  in  the  States.  We  have 
reason  to  be  proud  of  our  fellow-countryman,  for 
we  have  found  few  of  his  brethren  who  could  rival 
him  in  thorough  knowledge  of  their  charges  or  who 
were  able  to  tell  their  stories  more  entertainingly. 

There  is  little  left  of  Denbigh  Castle  save  the 
remnant  of  the  keep  and  the  outlines  of  the  founda- 
tion walls,  but  these  are  quite  enough  to  indicate 
its  old-time  defensive  strength.  Of  all  the  scores 
of  British  castles  we  have  seen,  scarcely  another,  it 
seems  to  us,  could  have  equalled  the  grim  strength 
of  Denbigh  in  its  palmy  days.  The  keep  consisted 
of  seven  great  towers,  six  of  them  surrounding  a 
central  one,  known  as  the  Hall  of  Judgment.  And, 
indeed,  dreadful  judgments  must  have  emanated 
from  this  gloomy  apartment — gloomy  in  its  best 
days,  being  almost  windowless — for  beneath  the 
keep  the  dungeon  is  still  intact  to  tell  plainer  than 
words  the  fate  of  the  captives  of  Denbigh  Castle. 
"Man's  inhumanity  to  man"  was  near  its  climax  in 
the  mind  of  the  designer  who  planned  this  tomblike 
vault,  hewn  in  the  solid  rock,  shut  in  by  a  single 
iron-bound  trap-door  and  without  communication 
with  the  outer  air  save  a  small  passageway  some 
two  inches  square  and  several  feet  in  length  which 
opened  in  the  outside  wall.  Only  by  standing 
closely  at  the  tiny  aperture  was  it  possible  for  the 

265 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

inmates  to  breathe  freely,  and  when  there  were  more 
than  one  in  the  dungeon  the  unfortunate  prisoners 
took  turns  at  the  breathing-hole,  as  it  was  styled. 

The  castle  was  originally  of  vast  extent,  its  outer 
wall,  which  once  enclosed  the  village  as  well,  ex- 
ceeding one  and  one-half  miles  in  length;  and  there 
was  a  network  of  underground  passageways  and 
apartments.  The  complete  ruin  of  the  structure  is 
due  to  havoc  wrought  with  gunpowder  after  the 
Restoration.  Huge  fragments  of  masonry  still  lie 
as  they  fell;  others,  crumbled  to  dust,  afford  footing 
for  shrubs  and  even  small  trees,  while  yellow  and 
purple  wall-flowers  and  tangled  masses  of  ivy  run 
riot  everywhere.  The  great  entrance  gateway  is 
intact  and,  strange  to  say,  a  statue  of  Henry  de 
Lacy,  the  founder,  stands  in  a  niche  above  the 
doors,  having  survived  the  vicissitudes  which  laid 
low  the  mighty  walls  and  stately  towers.  This  gate 
was  flanked  by  two  immense  watchtowers,  but  only 
a  small  part  of  the  western  one  remains.  The  rem- 
nants, as  an  English  writer  has  said,  "are  vast  and 
awful;  seldom  are  such  walls  seen;  the  huge  frag- 
ments that  remain  of  the  exterior  shell  impress  the 
mind  vividly  with  their  stupendous  strength." 
Several  underground  passages  have  been  discovered 
and  one  of  these  led  beneath  the  walls  into  the 
town,  evidently  intended  as  an  avenue  of  escape 
266 


WE  DISCOVER  DENBIGH 

for  the  garrison  in  last  extremity.  A  number  of 
human  skeletons  were  also  unearthed,  but  as  the 
castle  underwent  many  sieges,  these  were  possibly 
the  remains  of  defenders  who  died  within  the  walls. 

As  we  wander  about  the  ruins,  our  guide  has 
something  to  tell  us  of  every  nook.  We  hear  the 
sad  story  of  the  deep  well,  now  dry,  beneath  the 
Goblin  Tower,  into  which  the  only  son  of  the 
founder  fell  to  his  death,  a  tragedy  that  transferred 
the  succession  of  the  lordship  to  another  line;  and 
from  the  broken  battlements  there  is  much  to  be 
seen  in  the  green  valley  below.  Yonder  was  a 
British  camp  of  prehistoric  days,  indicated  by  the 
earthen  mounds  still  remaining;  near  by  a  Roman 
camp  of  more  recent  time,  though  it  was  little  less 
than  two  thousand  years  ago  that  the  legions  of  the 
seven-hilled  city  marched  on  yonder  plain.  Through 
the  notch  in  the  distant  hills  came  the  Cromwellians 
to  lay  siege  to  Denbigh  Castle,  the  last  fortress  in 
the  Kingdom  to  hold  out  for  King  Charles.  There 
was  no  end  of  fierce  fighting,  sallies  and  assaults  for 
several  months  in  the  summer  of  1646 — and  a  great 
exchange  of  courtesies  between  General  Mytton  of 
the  Parliamentary  Army  and  Sir  William  Salisbury, 
commanding  the  castle,  who  were  oldtime  friends. 
There  were  truces  for  burial  of  the  dead  of  both 
armies,  often  with  military  honors  on  part  of  the  op- 

267 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

posing  side,  but  all  of  this  did  not  mitigate  the 
bitterness  with  which  the  contest  was  waged.  The 
straits  of  the  garrison  became  terrible  indeed,  and 
at  last  the  implacable  old  governor  agreed  to  de- 
liver the  castle  to  his  enemies  provided  he  be  given 
the  honors  of  war  and  that  the  consent  of  the  king 
be  secured.  His  messenger  was  given  safe  conduct 
to  visit  Charles  and  the  monarch  readily  absolved 
his  faithful  retainer  from  farther  efforts  in  his  behalf. 
Tradition  has  it  that  when  the  Parliamentarian 
troops  were  drawn  up  within  the  castle  to  receive 
the  surrender,  the  commander  gently  reminded 
Colonel  Salisbury  that  the  key  had  not  yet  been 
delivered.  The  bellicose  old  Cavalier,  standing  on 
the  Goblin  Tower,  flung  the  key  to  his  conqueror 
with  the  bitter  remark,  "The  world  is  yours.  Make 
it  your  dunghill." 

But  perhaps  I  have  anticipated  a  little  in  relating 
the  last  great  incident  in  the  history  of  Denbigh 
Castle  first  of  all,  but  its  interest  entitles  it  to  prece- 
dence, though  the  earlier  story  of  the  castle  is  worth 
telling  briefly. 

There  are  indications  that  this  commanding  site 
was  fortified  long  before  the  Normans  reared  the 
walls  now  standing,  but  if  so,  there  are  few  authen- 
tic details  now  to  be  learned.  The  present  castle 
was  built  by  Henry  de  Lacy  during  the  latter  half 
268 


WE  DISCOVER  DENBIGH 

of  the  thirteenth  century  and  was  one  of  the  many 
fortresses  erected  in  Wales  during  the  reign  of 
Edward  I.  in  his  systematic  attempt  to  subdue  the 
native  chieftains.  Of  its  vicissitudes  during  the  end- 
less wars  between  the  English  and  Welsh  for  nearly 
a  century  after  its  foundation,  it  would  not  be  worth 
while  to  write,  nor  would  a  list  of  the  various  nobles 
who  succeeded  to  its  command  be  of  consequence. 
Its  most  notable  proprietor  and  the  one  who  left 
the  greatest  impress  of  his  ownership  was  the  famous 
Robert  Dudley,  Earl  of  Leicester,  whom  we  know 
best  from  his  connection  with  Kenilworth.  Dudley 
bought  the  castle  from  his  patroness,  Queen  Eliza- 
beth— it  had  long  before  her  reign  reverted  to  the 
crown — though  there  is  no  record  that  he  ever  paid 
even  the  first  installment  of  purchase  money,  and 
after  his  death  the  Queen  re-annexed  the  property 
on  the  ground  that  it  had  never  been  paid  for.  But 
even  if  he  did  not  pay  for  his  acquisition,  Dudley 
found  many  ways  to  give  evidence  of  his  ownership 
to  the  people  of  Denbigh  and  the  surrounding 
country.  His  lordship  was  one  of  oppression  and 
rapine  and  he  did  not  halt  at  any  crime  to  advance 
his  ends  and  to  extort  money  for  his  projects.  His 
influence  was  such  that  two  of  the  young  Salisburys, 
sons  of  one  of  the  noblest  families  in  the  country, 
were  hanged  at  Shrewsbury  for  pulling  down  one 

269 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

of  his  lordship's  illegal  fences!  This  was  only 
typical  of  his  high-handed  proceedings,  which  were 
cut  short  by  his  sudden  death,  said  to  have  been 
caused  by  drinking  poison  which  he  had  prepared 
for  another!  During  his  ownership  he  repaired  and 
added  to  the  castle  and  began  a  church  on  a  vast 
scale — still  standing  incomplete  in  ruin.  This  he 
hoped  would  supersede  the  cathedral  at  St.  Asaph 
and  the  only  recourse  of  the  good  people  of  that 
town  against  Leicester's  ambitious  schemes  was 
prayer,  which  doubtless  from  their  point  of  view 
seemed  wonderfully  efficacious  when  death  snatched 
their  oppressor  away. 

There  was  little  of  importance  in  the  castle's 
history  during  the  half  century  between  Leicester's 
death  and  the  Civil  War.  Charles  I.  came  here 
after  Rowton  Moor  and  then  it  was  that  the  bold 
governor  gave  his  oath  not  to  surrender  without  the 
King's  command.  General  Mytton,  the  victor  of 
Rowton,  closely  pursued  the  defeated  Royalists  and 
followed  Charles  to  Denbigh,  but  the  monarch,  on 
learning  of  his  enemy's  approach,  escaped  to  Scot- 
land, only  to  be  captured  a  little  later.  Of  the  long 
siege  we  have  already  told. 

The  fate  of  Denbigh  Castle  was  peculiar  in  that 
it  was  not  "destroyed  by  Cromwell,"  as  were  most 
of  the  ruined  fortresses  which  it  was  our  fortune  to 
270 


WE  DISCOVER  DENBIGH 

see  in  England.  It  was  held  by  the  Cromwellian 
army  until  the  Restoration,  when  a  special  edict 
was  framed  by  the  Royal  Parliament  ordering  that 
it  be  blown  up  with  gunpowder.  That  the  work 
was  well  done  is  mutely  testified  by  the  ruins  that 
surround  us  to-day.  For  years  the  fallen  walls 
served  the  natives  as  a  stone  quarry,  but  of  late 
Denbigh  has  been  seized  with  the  zeal  for  preser- 
vation of  things  historic  now  so  prevalent  in  Britain, 
and  the  castle  is  well  looked  after;  decay  has  been 
arrested  and  the  grounds  are  now  a  public  park.  A 
velvety  lawn  carpets  the  enclosure  and  a  bowling 
green  occupies  the  court  which  once  echoed  to  the 
tread  of  armed  men  and  war  horses. 

But  we  note  little  evidence  of  all  the  stirring 
scenes  enacted  on  this  historic  spot.  It  is  an  ideal 
summer  day;  there  is  scarce  a  breath  of  air  to  rustle 
the  masses  of  ivy  that  cling  to  the  walls;  save  for 
the  birds  that  sing  in  the  trees  and  shrubs,  quiet 
reigns;  there  are  no  sightseers  but  ourselves.  From 
the  old  keep  tower  a  glorious  view  greets  our  eyes. 
All  around  lies  the  green  vale  of  the  Clwyd  stretch- 
ing away  to  blue  hills;  it  is  dotted  here  and  there 
with  red-roofed  cottages  whose  walls  gleam  white 
as  alabaster  in  the  noonday  sun.  The  monotony 
is  further  relieved  by  groups  of  stately  trees  which 
mark  the  surrounding  country  seats  and  by  an  oc- 

271 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

casional  glint  of  the  lazy  river.  Our  guide  points 
out  the  near-by  village  of  Tremeirchion,  whose  name 
goes  back  to  Roman  times — signifying  that  there 
was  a  cavalry  station  near  the  spot.  A  gray  house 
surrounded  by  trees  is  Brynbella,  so  named  by  Dr. 
Samuel  Johnson,  who  frequently  visited  the  owner, 
Mrs.  Piozzi,  during  his  residence  near  Denbigh. 
Felicia  Hemans  lived  for  some  time  in  a  cottage 
to  be  seen  a  little  farther  down  the  vale  and  there 
are  traces  of  the  beauties  of  the  Clwyd  in  her  poems. 
On  the  outskirts  of  the  town  are  the  ruins  of  an 
abbey  founded  in  the  reign  of  Henry  III.  and  with- 
in a  mile  is  Whitchurch,  which  has  many  curious 
features,  among  them  a  stained-glass  window  which 
was  buried  during  the  Civil  War  to  save  it  from 
the  image-smashers. 

Nor  should  we  forget  the  little  white  cottage 
where  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson  lived  while  compiling 
his  famous  dictionary.  He  was  attracted  here  by 
the  rural  quiet  of  the  spot  and  for  several  years 
pursued  his  colossal  task.  The  house  stands  in  the 
edge  of  a  fine  grove  and  is  shut  in  by  a  thickly  set 
hawthorn  hedge.  A  monumental  shaft  in  the 
neighborhood  commemorates  the  association  of  the 
great  lexicographer  with  the  spot. 

But  Denbigh  has  a  more  recent  distinction  that 
will  appeal  to  every  schoolboy  of  the  English-speak- 

272 


WE  DISCOVER  DENBIGH 

ing  world,  for  here,  within  a  stone's  throw  of  the 
castle  gate,  was  bom  Henry  M.  Stanley,  the  great 
explorer.  It  was  not  by  this  name,  however,  that 
he  was  known  when  as  a  boy  of  five  he  was  placed 
in  the  workhouse  at  St.  Asaph  by  his  mother's 
brothers,  for  it  was  little  John  Henry  Rowlands  who 
was  so  cruelly  treated  by  the  master.  Stanley  him- 
self tells  in  his  autobiography  the  story  of  this  Welsh 
Dotheboys  Hall  and  also  of  his  escape  from  the 
institution  after  having  given  a  severe  thrashing  to 
his  oppressor,  who  was  no  match  for  the  sturdy 
youth  of  sixteen.  After  many  vicissitudes  he  reached 
New  Orleans  as  a  cabin  boy  on  a  merchant  ship  and 
was  employed  by  a  Henry  Morton  Stanley,  who 
later  adopted  him.  Of  Stanley's  career,  one  of  the 
most  varied  and  remarkable  of  which  there  is 
authentic  record,  we  will  not  write  here;  only  twice 
in  his  life  did  he  visit  Denbigh  and  the  last  time 
his  mother  refused  even  to  see  him,  alleging  that  he 
had  been  nothing  but  a  roving  ne'er-do-well.  She 
had  married  again — Stanley  was  but  three  years 
old  when  his  father  died — and  had  apparently  lost 
all  maternal  love  for  her  son,  destined  to  become  so 
famous.  It  seems  to  have  been  the  bitterest  experi- 
ence of  the  explorer's  life  and  he  never  attempted 
to  see  his  mother  again.  Denbigh  now  deeply  re- 
grets that  his  humble  birthplace  was  pulled  down 

273 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

some  years  ago,  but  the  little  church  where  he  was 
baptized — which  ranks  next  in  importance  to  the 
birthplace,  according  to  accepted  English  ideas — 
still  stands,  though  it  is  not  now  used  and  is  very 
much  dilapidated. 

Our  guide,  when  he  has  quite  exhausted  his  his- 
toric lore  and  when  the  "objects  of  interest"  have 
been  pointed  out  and  duly  expatiated  upon,  tells  us 
a  story  of  a  certain  noble  dame  of  ancient  Denbigh 
which  every  newcomer  needs  must  hear  at  least 
once.  Lady  Catherine  of  Beraine  was  of  royal 
descent,  her  mother  being  a  cousin  of  Queen  Eliza- 
beth; she  was  enormously  rich  and  was  reputed  of 
great  intellectual  attainments  and  force  of  character. 
But  her  fame  to-day  in  her  native  town  rests  on 
none  of  these  things;  she  is  remembered  as  having 
had  four  noble  husbands,  all  local  celebrities,  two 
of  whom  she  acquired  under,  to  say  the  least,  very 
unusual  circumstances.  The  first,  a  Salisbury,  died 
not  long  after  their  marriage  and  was  gathered  to 
his  fathers  after  the  most  approved  fashion  of  the 
times.  This  required  that  a  friend  of  the  deceased 
escort  the  widow  at  the  funeral  and  this — shall  I 
say  pleasant? — task  fell  to  Sir  Richard  Clough,  a 
widower  of  wealth  and  renown.  Sir  Richard's 
consolation  went  to  very  extraordinary  length,  for 
before  the  body  of  his  friend  was  interred,  he  had 
274 


WE  DISCOVER  DENBIGH 

proposed  to  the  widow  and  been  accepted!     On 
the  return  journey  from    the    tomb,    Sir    Maurice 
Wynne  approached  the  lady  with  a  similar  proposal, 
only  to  find  to  his  chagrin  and  consternation  that  he 
was  too  late.     But  he  did  the  next  best  thing  and 
before  he  was  through  had  the    widow's    solemn 
promise  that  in  case  she  should  be  called  upon  to 
mourn  Sir  Richard  he  should  be  his  friend's  suc- 
cessor!   Sir  Richard  considerately  died  at  forty  and 
his  gracious  widow  proved  true    to    her    promise. 
She  wedded  Maurice  Wynne  and  went  to  preside 
over  one  of  the  fairest  estates  in  Wales.     But  this 
did  not  end  her  matrimonial  experiences,  for  Wynne 
ere    long    followed    his    two    predecessors    to    the 
churchyard  and  the  third-time  widow  made  a  fourth 
venture  with  Edward  Thelwall,  a  wealthy  gentle- 
man of  the  town.     Now  while  there  may  be  some 
mythical  details  in  this  queer  story,  its  main  inci- 
dents were  actually  true,  and  so  numerous  are  the 
descendants  of  the  fair  Catherine  that  she  is  some- 
times given  the  sobriquet    of    Mam    Cymru,    the 
Mother  of  Wales.    An  English  writer  says  of  her, 
"Never,  surely,  was  there  such  a  record  made  by 
a  woman  of  quality.     Herself  of  royal  descent  and 
great  possessions  and  by  all  accounts    of    singular 
mental  attraction  if  not  surpassing  beauty,  she  mar- 

275 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

ried  successively  into  four  of    the    most    powerful 
houses  of  North  Wales." 

We  thank  the  custodian  for  the  pains  he  has 
taken  to  inform  and  entertain  us  and  bid  him  fare- 
well with  the  expected  gratuity.  We  slip  down 
the  winding  road  to  the  market-place,  where  we 
pause  for  a  short  time  to  look  about  the  town.  We 
are  told  that  it  is  one  of  the  best  in  Northern  Wales, 
both  in  a  business  and  social  way,  and  it  is  distinct- 
ly Welsh  as  contrasted  with  the  English  domina- 
tion of  Welshpool,  Ludlow  and  Shrewsbury.  We 
see  a  prosperous-looking  class  of  country  folk  in  the 
market-place  and  while  English  generally  prevails, 
Welsh  is  spoken  by  some  of  the  older  people.  They 
are  well-clad  and  give  evidence  of  the  intelligence 
and  sobriety  for  which  the  northern  Welshman  is 
noted.  The  excellent  horses  on  the  streets  show 
that  the  Welsh  are  as  particular  about  their  nags  as 
are  their  English  brethren.  We  wish  that  our  plans 
had  not  been  already  made — we  should  like  to 
take  up  quarters  at  the  Crown  or  Bull  and  remain 
a  day  or  two  in  Denbigh.  But  the  best  we  can  do 
now  is  to  pick  up  a  few  souvenirs  at  an  old  curiosity 
shop  near  the  market  and  secretly  resolve  to  come 
back  again. 

The  road  out  of  the  town  follows  the  green  vale 
of  the  Clwyd  to  St.  Asaph  and  Rhuddlan,  both  of 
276 


WE  DISCOVER  DENBIGH 

which  have  enough  interest  to  warrant  a  few  hours' 
pause.  At  St.  Asaph  we  content  ourselves  with  a 
drive  around  the  cathedral — the  smallest  in  the 
Kingdom — against  which  the  haughty  Leicester  di- 
rected his  designs  three  centuries  ago.  Its  most  con- 
spicuous feature  is  its  huge  square  tower  one  hundred 
feet  in  height.  The  St.  Asaph  who  gave  his  name 
to  the  village  and  cathedral  is  supposed  to  have 
founded  a  church  here  as  early  as  the  middle  of 
the  sixth  century,  one  of  the  earliest  in  the  King- 
dom. 

Five  miles  farther  down  the  valley  over  a  fine 
level  road  is  Rhuddlan  Castle.  There  are  few 
more  picturesque  ruins  in  Britain  than  this  huge  red- 
stone  fortress  with  its  massive  round  gate-towers, 
almost  completely  covered  with  ivy.  Only  the 
outer  shell  and  towers  remain;  inside  is  a  level  plat 
of  green  sward  that  gives  no  hint  of  the  martial 
activity  within  these  walls  six  or  seven  centuries 
ago.  Rhuddlan  was  one  of  the  several  castles 
built  by  Edward  I.  in  his  efforts  to  subdue  the 
Welsh,  and  here  he  held  his  court  for  three  years 
while  engaged  in  his  difficult  task.  The  whole 
town  was  a  military  camp  and  numbers  of  the  sub- 
dued Welsh  chieftains  and  their  retainers  must  have 
come  hither  to  make  the  best  terms  they  could  with 
their  conqueror.  But  the  ruin  is  quiet  enough  under 

277 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

the  blue  heavens  that  bend  over  it  to-day — the  daws 
flap  lazily  above  its  ancient  towers  and  the  smaller 
songsters  chatter  and  quarrel  in  the  thick  ivy.  The 
castle  has  stood  thus  ever  since  it  was  dismantled 
by  the  same  General  Mytton  who  forced  the  sur- 
render of  Denbigh. 

There  is  much  that  might  engage  our  time  and 
attention  along  the  twenty  miles  of  roads  that  skirt 
the  marshes  and  the  sea  between  Rhuddlan  and 
Conway,  but  we  cannot  linger  to-day.  An  hour's 
run  brings  us  into  the  little  Welsh  citadel  shortly 
after  noon  and  we  forthwith  repair  to  the  Castle 
Hotel. 


278 


XVI 

CONWAY 

Mr.  Moran  has  given  us  in  his  striking  picture  a 
somewhat  unusual  view  of  the  towers  of  Conway 
Castle.  A  better-known  aspect  of  the  fine  old  ruin 
is  shown  by  the  photograph  which  I  have  repro- 
duced. Both,  however,  will  serve  to  emphasize  the 
point  which  I  desire  to  make — that  Conway,  when 
seen  from  a  proper  distance,  is  one  of  the  most  pic- 
turesque of  British  castles.  The  first  thing  the  way- 
farer sees  when  he  approaches  is  this  splendid  group 
of  crenelated  round  towers  and  it  is  the  last  object 
to  fade  on  his  vision  when  he  reluctantly  turns  his 
feet  away  from  the  pleasant  old  village.  And  I 
care  not  how  matter-of-fact  and  prosaic  may  be  his 
temperament,  he  cannot  fail  to  bear  away  an  in- 
effaceable recollection  of  the  grim  beauty  of  the 
stately  pile. 

The  sea  road  takes  us  into  the  town  by  the  way 
of  the  great  suspension  bridge,  whose  well-finished 
modern  towers  contrast  rather  unpleasantly  with 
the  rugged  antiquity  of  the  castle  across  the  river; 
but  the  suspension  bridge  is  none  the  less  a  work 

279 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

of  art  and  beauty  compared  with  the  angular  ugli- 
ness of  the  tubular  railway  structure  that  parallels 
it.  We  pay  our  modest  toll  and  crossing  over  the 
green  tide  that  is  now  setting  strongly  up  the  river, 
we  glide  beneath  the  castle  walls  into  the  town. 

The  Castle  Hotel  we  know  by  previous  exper- 
ience to  be  one  of  those  most  delightful  of  old- 
fashioned  country  inns  where  one  may  be  comfort- 
able and  quite  unhampered  by  excessive  formality. 
Baedeker,  it  is  true,  gives  the  place  of  honor  to 
the  Oakwood  Park,  a  pretentious  resort  hotel  about 
a  mile  from  the  town,  but  this  will  hardly  appeal 
to  pilgrims  like  ourselves,  who  come  to  Conway 
to  revel  in  its  old-world  atmosphere.  The  Castle, 
with  its  rambling  corridors,  its  odd  corners  and 
plain  though  substantial  furnishings,  is  far  more  to 
our  liking.  It  stands  on  the  site  of  Conway's  Cister- 
cian Abbey,  built  by  Prince  Llewellyn  in  1185, 
all  traces  of  which  have  now  disappeared.  As  the 
principal  inn  of  the  North  Wales  art  center,  its 
walls  are  appropriately  covered  with  pictures  and 
sketches — many  of  them  original — and  numerous 
pieces  of  artistic  bric-a-brac  are  scattered  about  its 
hallways  and  mantels.  We  notice  among  the  pic- 
tures two  or  three  characteristic  sketches  by  Mr. 
Moran  and  learn  that  he  was  a  guest  of  the  inn 
for  several  weeks  last  summer,  during  which  time 
280 


CONWAY 

he  painted  the  picture  of  the  castle  which  adorns 
the  pages  of  this  book.  The  impression  which  he 
left  with  the  manageress  was  altogether  favorable; 
she  cannot  say  enough  in  praise  of  the  courtesy  and 
kindness  of  her  distinguished  guest  who  gave  her 
the  much-prized  sketches  with  his  compliments. 
And  she  is  quite  familiar  with  the  names  and  knows 
something  about  the  work  of  several  well-known 
British  artists — for  have  they  not  been  guests  at  the 
castle  from  time  to  time  during  the  summer  exhibits? 
Conway,  as  we  shall  see,  occupies  no  small  niche  in 
the  art  world,  having  an  annual  exhibition  of  con- 
siderable importance,  besides  affording  endless 
themes  to  delight  the  artistic  eye. 

The  immediate  objective  of  the  first-time  visitor 
to  Conway  will  be  the  castle,  but  this  is  our  third 
sojourn  in  the  ancient  citadel  and  we  shall  give  the 
afternoon  to  Plas  Mawr.  For,  though  we  are  quite 
as  familiar  with  Plas  Mawr  as  with  the  castle,  the 
fine  old  mansion  has  a  new  attraction  each  year  in 
the  annual  exhibit  of  the  Royal  Cambrian  Academy 
and  the  walls  are  covered  with  several  hundred  pic- 
tures, many  of  them  by  distinguished  British  painters. 
The  exhibit  is  generally  acknowledged  to  be  of  first 
rank  and  usually  includes  canvases  by  Royal 
Academicians  as  well  as  the  work  of  members  of 
other  distinguished  British  art  societies.  That  it  is 
281 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

not  better  known  and  patronized  is  not  due  to  any 
lack  of  genuine  merit;  rather  to  the  fact  that  so 
many  tourists  are  ignorant  of  its  very  existence  as 
well  as  the  attractions  of  the  town  itself.  Such,  in- 
deed, was  our  own  case;  on  our  first  visit  to  Con- 
way  we  contented  ourselves  with  a  glimpse  of  the 
castle  and  hastened  on  our  way  quite  unaware  of 
Plas  Mawr  and  its  exhibit.  Stupid,  of  course;  we 
might  have  learned  better  from  Baedeker;  but  we 
thought  there  was  nothing  but  the  castle  in  Conway 
and  did  not  trouble  to  read  the  fine  print  of  our 
"vade  mecum."  A  second  visit  taught  us  better; 
the  castle  one  should  certainly  see — but  Plas  Mawr 
and  its  pictures  are  worth  a  journey  from  the  remot- 
est corner  of  the  Kingdom.  Indeed,  it  was  in  this 
exhibit  that  I  first  became  acquainted  with  the  work 
of  Mr.  H.  J.  Dobson  of  Edinburgh,  whose  pictures 
I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  introducing  in  America. 
His  famous  "New  Arrival"  was  perhaps  the  most- 
talked-of  picture  the  year  of  our  visit  and  is  surely 
worth  showing  herewith  as  typical  of  the  high  qual- 
ity of  the  Royal  Cambrian  exhibit.  And,  indeed, 
this  severely  plain,  almost  pathetic,  little  home  scene 
of  the  olden  time  might  just  as  appropriately  have 
been  located  in  the  environs  of  Conway. 

I  have  rambled  on  about  Plas  Mawr  and  its  pic- 
tures to  a  considerable  extent,  but  I  have  so  far 
282 


CONWAY 

failed  to  give  much  idea  as  to  Plas  Mawr  itself 
aside  from  its  exhibit.  Its  name,  signifying  "the 
great  house,"  is  appropriate  indeed,  for  in  the  whole 
Kingdom  there  are  few  better  examples — at  least 
such  as  are  accessible  to  the  ordinary  tourist — of 
the  spacious  home  of  a  wealthy  country  gentleman 
in  the  romantic  days  of  Queen  Bess.  It  was  planned 
for  the  rather  ostentatious  hospitality  of  the  times 
and  must  have  enjoyed  such  a  reputation,  for  it  is 
pretty  well  established  that  Queen  Elizabeth  her- 
self was  a  guest  in  the  stately  house.  The  Earl  of 
Leicester,  as  we  have  seen,  had  large  holdings  in 
North  Wales,  and  was  wont  to  come  to  Snowdonia 
on  hunting  expeditions;  Elizabeth  and  her  court 
accompanied  him  on  one  occasion  and  were  quar- 
tered in  Plas  Mawr.  Tradition,  which  has  for- 
gotten the  exact  date  of  the  royal  visit,  has  care- 
fully recorded  the  rooms  occupied  by  the  queen — 
two  of  the  noblest  apartments  in  the  house.  The 
sitting-room  has  a  huge  fireplace  with  the  royal 
arms  of  England  in  plaster  above  the  mantel.  Ad- 
joining this  apartment  is  the  bedroom,  beautifully 
decorated  with  heraldic  devices  and  lighted  with 
windows  of  ancient  stained  glass. 

But  I  must  hasten  to  declare  that  I  have  no  in- 
tention of  describing  in  detail  the  various  apartments 
of  the  great  house.     Each  one  has  its  own  story 
283 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

and  nearly  all  are  decorated  with  richly  bossed 
plaster  friezes  and  ceilings.  The  circular  stairways, 
the  corridors,  the  narrow  passageways  and  the 
courtyard  are  all  unique  and  bring  to  the  mind  a 
host  of  romantic  musings.  You  are  not  at  all  sur- 
prised to  learn  of  Plas  Mawr's  ghostly  habitant — 
it  is,  on  the  contrary,  just  what  you  expected.  I 
shall  not  repeat  this  authentic  ghost  story;  you  may 
find  it  in  the  little  guide-book  of  the  house  if  such 
things  appeal  to  you;  and,  besides,  it  is  hardly 
suitable  for  my  pages.  It  is  enough  to  record  that 
Plas  Mawr  has  its  ghost  and  heavy  footfalls  may 
be  heard  in  its  vacant  rooms  by  those  hardy  enough 
to  remain  on  nights  when  storms  howl  about  the 
old  gables.  And  it  is  these  same  old  "stepped" 
gables  with  the  queer  little  towers  and  tall  chim- 
neys that  lend  such  a  distinguished  air  to  the  exter- 
ior of  the  old  house.  It  would  be  a  dull  observer 
whose  eye  would  not  be  caught  by  it,  even  in  pass- 
ing casually  along  the  street  on  which  it  stands. 
Above  the  door  the  date  1 5  76  proves  beyond  ques- 
tion the  year  of  its  completion  and  shows  that  it 
has  stood,  little  changed,  for  more  than  three  cen- 
turies. It  was  built  by  one  of  the  Wynne  family, 
which  was  so  distinguished  and  powerful  in  North 
Wales  during  the  reign  of  Elizabeth.  At  present 
it  is  the  private  property  of  Lord  Mostyn,  but  one 
284 


CONWAY 

cannot  help  feeling  that  by  rights  it  should  belong 
to  the  tight  little  town  of  Conway,  which  forms 
such  a  perfect  setting  for  this  gem  of  ancient  archi- 
tecture. 

But  enough  of  Plas  Mawr — though  I  confess  as 
I  write  to  an  intense  longing  to  see  it  again.  We 
must  hie  us  back  to  our  inn,  for  the  dinner  hour 
is  not  far  off  and  we  are  quite  ready  for  the  Castle's 
substantial  fare.  There  is  still  plenty  of  time  after 
dinner  to  saunter  about  the  town  and  the  twilight 
hours  are  the  best  for  such  a  ramble.  When  the 
subdued  light  begins  to  envelop  castle  and  ancient 
walls,  one  may  best  realize  the  unique  distinction 
of  Conway  as  a  bit  of  twelfth-century  medievalism 
set  bodily  down  in  our  workaday  modern  world. 
The  telegraph  poles  and  wires,  the  railways  and 
great  bridges  fade  from  the  scene  and  we  see  the 
ancient  town,  compassed  with  its  mighty  betowered 
walls  and  guarded  by  the  frowning  majesty  of  the 
castle.  It  is  peculiarly  the  time  to  ascend  the  wall 
and  to  leisurely  walk  its  entire  length.  We  find  it 
wonderfully  solid  and  well-preserved,  though  ragged 
and  hung  with  ivy;  grasses  carpet  its  crest  in  places, 
yellow  and  purple  wall-flowers  cling  to  its  rugged 
sides,  and  in  one  place  a  sapling  has  found  footing, 
apparently  thriving  in  its  airy  habitat.  Yet  the  wall 
is  quite  in  its  original  state;  the  hand  of  the  re- 
285 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

storer  has  hardly  touched  it,  nor  does  it  apparently 
require  anything  in  the  way  of  repair.  How  very 
different  is  it  from  the  walls  of  York  and  Chester, 
which  show  clearly  enough  the  recent  origin  of  at 
least  large  portions  throughout  their  entire  courses. 
It  reaches  in  places  a  height  of  perhaps  twenty  feet 
and  I  should  think  its  thickness  at  the  base  nearly 
as  great.  In  old  days  it  was  surmounted  by  twenty- 
one  watchtowers,  all  of  which  still  remain  in  a 
state  of  greater  or  less  perfection.  Its  ancient  Moor- 
ish-looking gateways  still  survive,  though  the  mas- 
sive doors  and  drawbridges  that  once  shut  out  the 
hostile  world  disappeared  long  since.  We  saunter 
leisurely  down  the  wall  toward  the  river  and  find 
much  of  interest  whichever  way  we  turn.  The  town 
spreads  out  beneath  us  like  a  map  and  we  can 
detect,  after  some  effort,  its  fanciful  likeness  to  the 
shape  of  a  harp— so  dutifully  mentioned  by  the 
guide-books.  Just  beneath  this  we  gaze  into  the 
back  yards  of  the  poorer  quarter  and  see  a  bevy 
of  dirty  little  urchins  going  through  endless  antics 
in  hope  of  extracting  a  copper  or  two  from  us — 
they  know  us  well  for  tourists  at  once — who  else, 
indeed,  would  be  on  the  wall  at  such  a  time?  A 
little  farther  are  the  rambling  gables  of  Plas  Mawr 
and  on  the  extreme  opposite  side  of  the  town,  the 
stern  yet  beautiful  towers  of  the  castle  are  sharply 

286 


INNER  COURT,  PLAS  MAWR,  CONWAY 


CONWAY 

silhouetted  against  the  evening  sky.  How  it  all 
savors  of  the  days  of  chivalrous  eld ;  the  flash  of 
armor  from  yonder  watchtowers,  the  deep  voice 
of  the  sentry  calling  the  hour,  the  gleam  of  rushlight 
from  the  silent  windows  or  the  reveille  of  a  Norman 
bugle,  would  seem  to  be  all  that  is  required  to  trans- 
port us  back  to  the  days  of  the  royal  builder  of  the 
castle.  Or  if  we  choose  to  turn  our  gaze  outside 
the  walls,  we  may  enjoy  one  of  the  finest  vistas 
to  be  found  in  the  British  Isles.  Looking  down 
the  broad  estuary,  through  which  the  emerald- 
green  tide  is  now  pouring  in  full  flow  toward  the 
sea,  one  has  a  panorama  of  wooded  hills  on  the 
one  hand  and  the  village  of  Deganwy  with  the 
huge  bulk  of  Great  Orme's  Head  as  a  background 
on  the  other;  while  between  these  a  vast  stretch 
of  sunset  water  loses  itself  in  the  distance. 

But  we  are  at  the  north  limit  of  the  old  wall 
— for  it  ends  abruptly  as  it  approaches  the  beach 
— and  we  descend  to  the  promenade  along  the  river. 
There  is  a  boathouse  here  and  a  fairly  good  beach. 
If  it  had  not  so  many  rivals  near  at  hand,  Conway 
might  boast  itself  as  a  resort  town,  but  the  average 
summer  vacationist  cares  less  for  medieval  walls 
and  historic  castles  than  for  sunny  beaches  and  all  the 
diversions  that  the  seaside  resort  town  usually  offers. 
287 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

He  limits  his  stay  in  Conway  to  an  hour  or  two 
and  spends  his  weeks  at  Llandudno  or  Colwyn  Bay. 

There  are  many  odd  corners  that  are  worth  the 
visitor's  attention  and  one  is  sure  to  have  them 
brought  to  his  notice  as  he  rambles  about  the  town. 
"The  smallest  house  in  the  Island"  is  one  of  them 
and  the  little  old  woman  who  occupies  this  cur- 
iosity will  not  let  you  pass  without  an  opportunity 
to  look  in  and  leave  a  copper  or  two  in  recognition 
of  her  trouble.  It  is  a  boxlike  structure  of  two 
floors  about  four  by  six  feet  each,  comfortably 
furnished — to  an  extent  one  would  hardly  think 
possible  in  such  very  contracted  quarters.  There 
are  many  very  ancient  homes  in  the  town  dating 
from  the  sixteenth  century  and  perhaps  the  best 
known  of  them — aside  from  Plas  Mawr — is  the 
little  "Black  Lion"  in  Castle  Street.  It  is  now 
fitted  up  as  a  museum,  though  its  exhibit,  I  fear, 
is  more  an  excuse  to  exact  a  shilling  from  the 
pocket  of  the  tourist  than  to  serve  any  great  arche- 
ological  end.  The  interior,  however,  is  worth 
seeing,  as  it  affords  some  idea  of  the  domestic  life 
of  a  well-to-do  middle-class  merchant  of  three  or 
four  hundred  years  ago.  Another  building  in  the 
same  street  is  of  even  earlier  date,  for  the  legend, 
"A.  D.  1400,"  appears  in  quaint  characters  above 
its  door.  Still  another  fine  Elizabethan  home  shows 

288 


CONWAY 

the  Stanley  arms  in  stained  glass — an  eagle  with 
outstretched  wings  swooping  down  upon  a  child — 
but  this  building,  as  well  as  many  others  in  Con- 
way,  has  been  "restored"  pretty  much  out  of  its 
original  self.  I  name  these  particular  things  merely 
to  show  what  a  wealth  of  interest  the  town  possesses 
for  the  observer  who  has  learned  that  there  is  some- 
thing else  besides  the  castle  and  who  is  ^willing  to 
make  a  sojourn  of  two  or  three  days  within  the 
hoary  walls. 

The  church  of  St.  Mary's  has  little  claim  to 
architectural  distinction,  but  like  nearly  all  the 
ancient  churches  of  Britain,  it  has  many  odd  bits 
of  tradition  and  incident  quite  peculiar  to  itself. 
There  is  an  elaborate  baptismal  font  and  a  beauti- 
ful rood  screen  dating  from  the  thirteenth  century. 
John  Gibson,  R.  A.,  the  distinguished  sculptor,  who 
was  born  near  Conway,  is  buried  in  the  church 
and  a  marble  bust  has  been  erected  to  his  memory. 
Another  native  buried  within  the  sacred  walls  is 
entitled  to  distinction  in  quite  a  different  direction, 
for  a  tablet  over  his  grave  declares: 

"Here  lyeth  the  body  of  Mich's  Hookes  of  Con- 
way,  Gent,  who  was  ye  41  child  of  his  father 
William  Hookes  Esq.  and  the  father  of  27  chil- 
dren, who  died  on  the  20  day  of  Mch.  1637." 

Surely,  if    these    ancient    Welshmen  were  alive 
289 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

to-day  they  would  be  lionized  by  our  anti-race-sui- 
cide propagandists!  In  the  chancel  there  are  sev- 
eral elaborate  monuments  of  the  Wynne  family 
which  exhibit  the  usual  characteristics  of  old-time 
British  mortuary  sculpture.  One  of  these  tombs 
is  of  circular  shape,  and  interesting  from  its  peculiar- 
ity, though  none  of  them  shows  a  high  degree  of 
the  sculptor's  art. 

Outside,  near  the  south  porch,  is  a  curious  sun 
dial  erected  in  1761,  which  is  carefully  graduated 
to  single  minutes.  Near  this  is  a  grave  made  famous 
by  Wordsworth  in  his  well-known  poem,  "We  are 
Seven," — for  the  poet,  as  we  have  learned  in  our 
wanderings,  was  himself  something  of  a  traveler  and 
these  simple  verses  remind  us  of  his  sojourn  in 
Conway.  Their  peculiar  appeal  to  almost  every 
tourist  is  not  strange  when  we  recall  that  scarcely 
a  school-reader  of  half  a  century  ago  omitted  them. 

Conway,  as  might  be  expected,  has  many  quaint 
customs  and  traditions.  One  of  these,  as  described 
by  a  pleasing  writer,  may  be  worth  retelling: 

"At  Conway  an  old  ceremony  called  the 
'Stocsio'  obtained  till  the  present  reign,  being  ob- 
served at  Eastertide,  when  on  the  Sunday  crowds 
carrying  wands  of  gorse  were  accustomed  to  pro- 
ceed to  a  small  hill  outside  the  town  known  as  Pen 
twt.  There  the  most  recently  married  man  was 

290 


CONWAY 

deputed  to  read  out  to  a  bare-headed  audience  the 
singular  and  immemorial  rules  that  were  to  prevail 
in  the  town  on  the  following  day:  All  men  under 
sixty  were  to  be  in  the  street  by  six  o'clock  in  the 
morning;  those  under  forty  by  four,  while  youths 
of  twenty  or  less  were  forbidden  to  go  to  bed  at  all. 
Houses  were  searched,  and  much  rough  horse-play 
was  going  about.  Defaulters  were  carried  to  the 
stocks,  and  there  subjected  to  a  time-honoured  and 
grotesque  catechism,  calculated  to  promote  much 
ridicule.  Ball-play  in  the  castle,  too,  was  a  dis- 
tinguishing feature  of  all  these  ancient  fete  days." 

Another  carefully  preserved  tradition  relates  to 
the  tenure  of  the  castle  by  the  town  corporation, 
which  must  pay  annually  a  fee  of  eight  shillings 
sixpence  to  the  crown,  and  the  presentation  by  way 
of  tribute  of  a  "dish  of  fish"  to  the  Marquis  of 
Hertford — the  titular  Earl  of  Conway — whenever 
he  visits  the  town.  This  gave  rise  to  a  ludicrous 
misunderstanding  not  very  long  ago.  An  old  guide- 
book substituted  "Mayor  of  Hereford"  for  Marquis 
of  Hertford,"  and  a  perusal  of  this  led  the  former 
dignitary  to  formally  claim  the  honor  when  he  was 
in  Conway.  The  mayor  of  the  ancient  burg  ex- 
plained the  error  to  his  guest,  but  went  on  to  say 
that  had  sparlings,  the  peculiar  fish  for  which  the 
Conway  River  is  noted,  been  in  season  and  obtain- 

291 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

able,  he  would  have  had  great  pleasure  in  present- 
ing a  dish  of  them  to  the  Mayor  of  Hereford;  as  it 
was,  it  was  understood  that  in  default  of  the  spar- 
lings the  worthy  civic  clerk  of  Conway  would  treat 
his  illustrious  visitor  to  a  bottle  of  champagne  of  an 
especially  old  and  choice  vintage.  There  is  no 
record  that  the  dignitary  from  Hereford  made  any 
objection  to  the  substitution  of  something  "just  as 
good." 

In  leaving  the  castle  until  the  last,  I  am  conscious 
that  I  am  violating  the  precedent  set  by  nearly  all 
who  have  written  of  Conway  and  its  attractions, 
but  I  have  striven — I  hope  successfully — to  show 
that  there  is  enough  in  the  old  town  to  make  a 
pilgrimage  worth  while,  even  if  it  did  not  have 
what  is  perhaps  the  most  picturesque  ruin  in  the 
Island.  For  the  superior  claims  of  Conway  Castle 
are  best  described  by  the  much-abused  word,  "pic- 
turesque." While  it  has  seen  stirring  times,  it  did 
not  cut  the  figure  of  Denbigh,  Harlech  or  Carnar- 
von in  Welsh  history,  nor  did  it  equal  many  others 
in  size  and  impregnability.  But  to  my  mind  it  is 
doubtful  if  any  other  so  completely  fulfills  the  ideal 
of  the  towered  and  battlemented  castle  of  the 
middle  ages.  From  almost  any  viewpoint  this  is 
apparent,  though  the  view  from  across  the  river  is 
well-nigh  spoiled  by  the  obtrusively  ugly  tubular 


CONWAY 

railroad  bridge;  nor  does  the  more  graceful  suspen- 
sion bridge  add  to  it,  for  that  matter.  In  earlier 
times  the  only  approach  from  this  direction  was  by 
ferry — an  "awkward  kind  of  a  boat  called 
yr  ysgraff,"  says  a  local  guide-book.  The  boat 
seems  to  have  been  quite  as  unmanageable  as  its 
name,  for  on  Christmas  day,  1806,  it  capsized, 
drowning  twelve  persons.  Twenty  years  later  the 
suspension  bridge  was  ready  for  use  and  the  tubular 
bridge  followed  in  1848. 

Conway  Castle  was  one  of  the  several  fortresses 
built  by  the  first  Edward  to  complete  the  conquest 
of  Wales.  It  was  designed  by  Henry  de  Elreton, 
a  builder  of  great  repute  in  his  time  and  also  the 
architect  of  Carnarvon  and  Beumaris.  The  work 
was  conducted  under  personal  command  of  the 
king  and  its  completion  in  1291  was  celebrated  by 
a  great  fete  at  Christmastime.  As  one  wanders 
through  the  roofless,  ivy-clad  ruin,  carpeted  with 
the  green  sward  that  has  crept  over  the  debris- 
covered  floors,  and  contemplates  the  empty  windows 
open  to  all  the  winds  of  heaven,  the  fallen  walls 
and  crumbling  towers,  the  broken  arches — only  one 
of  the  eight  which  spanned  the  great  hall  remaining 
— amid  all  the  pathetic  evidence  of  dissolution  and 
decay,  it  is  hard  indeed  to  reconstruct  the  scene  of 
gay  life  that  must  have  filled  the  noble  pile  in  that 
293 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

far-off  day.  Here  the  high-spirited  and  often  ty- 
rannical king,  accompanied  by  the  queen,  almost 
as  ambitious  and  domineering  as  himself,  had 
gathered  the  flower  of  English  knighthood  and  no- 
bility with  their  proud  dames  and  brightly  liveried 
retainers  to  make  merry  while  the  monarch  was  forg- 
ing the  chains  to  bind  the  prostrate  principality. 
Here,  we  may  imagine,  the  revelry  of  an  almost 
barbarous  time  and  people  must  have  reached  its 
height;  and  we  may  thank  heaven  that  the  old 
order  of  things  is  as  shattered  and  obsolete  as  the 
ruined  walls  that  surround  us. 

As  previously  intimated,  the  history  of  Conway 
Castle  is  hardly  in  accord  with  its  grandeur  and  im- 
portance. Its  royal  founder  soon  after  its  comple- 
tion found  himself  closely  besieged  within  its  walls 
by  the  Welsh  and  was  nearly  reduced  to  an  un- 
conditional surrender,  when  the  subsidence  of  the 
river  made  it  possible  for  reinforcements  to  relieve 
the  situation.  A  century  later  Richard  II.  com- 
manded the  troops  raised  to  war  in  his  behalf  on 
the  haughty  Bolingbroke  to  assemble  at  Conway, 
but  the  monarch's  feebleness  and  vacillation  brought 
all  plans  of  aggressive  action  to  naught;  for  he 
basely  abandoned  his  followers  and  rushed  blindly 
into  his  enemy's  power.  And  thus  what  might 
have  been  a  historic  milestone  in  the  career  of  the 
294 


CONWAY 

castle  degenerated  into  an  unimportant  incident. 
Conway  escaped  easily  during  the  civil  war  which 
sounded  the  knell  of  so  many  feudal  castles.  The 
militant  Archbishop  Williams,  whose  memorial  we 
may  see  in  the  parish  church,  espoused  the  side  of 
the  king  and  after  his  efforts  had  put  everything  in 
shape  for  defence,  he  was  ordered  to  turn  over  the 
command  to  Prince  Rupert.  This  procedure  on  the 
part  of  Charles  led  the  warlike  churchman  to  sud- 
denly change  his  opinion  of  the  justice  of  the  royal 
cause  and  he  at  once  joined  forces  with  the  Crom- 
wellians.  He  carried  with  him  a  considerable  fol- 
lowing and  personally  assisted  General  Mytton  in 
his  operations  against  both  Denbigh  and  Conway 
Castles.  The  latter  Was  first  to  fall  and  the  good 
bishop  received  the  thanks  of  Parliament  for  his 
services  and  also  a  full  pardon  for  the  part  he  had 
taken  in  support  of  King  Charles.  He  was  also 
able  to  restore  to  his  followers  the  valuables  which 
had  been  hidden  in  the  castle  for  safe  keeping. 
Conway  was  another  exception  to  Cromwell's  rule 
of  destruction  of  such  feudal  fortresses.  Perhaps 
the  fact  that  at  the  time  of  its  surrender  the  Royal- 
ists were  almost  everywhere  subdued  and  not  likely 
to  be  able  to  reoccupy  it,  had  something  to  do  with 
this  unusual  leniency.  In  any  event,  the  discredit 
for  the  destruction  of  the  splendid  structure  rests 

295 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

with  King  Charles,  who  permitted  one  of  his  re- 
tainers to  plunder  it  of  its  leaden  roof  and  timbers. 
These  materials  were  to  be  sent  to  Ireland — just  for 
what  purpose  is  not  clear — but  it  does  not  matter, 
for  the  ships  carrying  the  wreckage  were  all  lost  in 
a  violent  storm. 

Since  that  memorable  period  the  old  ruin  has 
witnessed  two  and  a  half  centuries  of  unbroken 
peace.  Its  enemies  were  no  longer  battering  ram 
and  hostile  cannon.  The  wild  storms  of  winter, 
the  summer  rains  and  the  sea  winds  have  expended 
their  forces  upon  it,  only  to  give  it  a  weird,  inde- 
scribable beauty  such  as  it  never  could  have  pos- 
sessed in  its  proudest  days.  Careful  restoration  has 
arrested  further  decay  and  insures  its  preservation 
indefinitely.  It  has  never  figured  in  song  or  story 
to  the  extent  its  beauty  and  romance  would  lead 
us  to  expect,  though  Owen  Rhoscomyl,  a  native 
Welshman,  has  written  a  stirring  novel,  "Battle- 
ments and  Towers,"  which  deals  with  the  castle  in 
civil  war  days.  The  story  has  a  historic  basis  and 
the  graves  of  the  lovers,  Dafyd  and  Morfa,  may  still 
be  seen  in  Conway  Church. 

But  no  Welshman  has  yet  arisen  to  do  for  his 
native  land  what  Scott  did  for  Scotland.  The  field 
is  fully  as  rich — surely  the  struggles  of  this  brave 
little  people  were  as  heroic  and  full  of  splendid  in- 

296 


CONWAY 

cident  as  anything  that  transpired  in  Scotch  history. 
But  as  a  venture  for  letters  the  field  still  lies  fallow 
and  perhaps  the  unromantic  atmosphere  of  our 
present-day  progress  will  always  keep  it  so.  In 
leaving  Con  way  for  our  fifth  sojourn  at  Ludlow  we 
find  ourselves  wondering  which  of  these  may  out- 
rank the  other  as  the  gem  of  all  the  smaller  medie- 
val towns  we  have  visited  in  Britain.  Indeed,  we 
have  not  answered  the  query  yet,  but  we  are  sure 
the  distinction  belongs  to  one  or  the  other. 


297 


XVII 

THE  HARDY  COUNTRY  AND  BERRY  POMEROY 

It  has  been  said  that  the  traveler  who  has  visited 
either  John  O'Groats  or  Land's  End  never  feels 
at  ease  until  he  has  both  of  these  places  to  his 
"credit."  I  should  be  loath  to  confess  that  such  a 
feeling  had  anything  to  do  with  our  setting  out  from 
London  with  Land's  End  as  an  ill-defined  objec- 
tive, though  appearances  may  indeed  favor  such  an 
inference.  Once  before  we  were  within  ten  miles 
of  the  spot  and  did  not  feel  interested  enough  to 
take  the  few  hours  for  the  trip.  But  now  we  have 
spent  a  night  at  John  O'Groats — and  have  no  very 
pleasant  recollection  of  it,  either — and  should  we 
ever  tell  of  our  exploit  the  first  question  would  be, 
"And  did  you  go  to  Land's  End?"  Be  that  as  it 
may,  we  find  ourselves  carefully  picking  our  way 
through  the  crowded  Oxford  street  which  changes 
its  name  a  half  dozen  times  before  we  come  out 
into  the  Staines  Road.  We  are  not  in  the  best  of 
humor,  for  it  was  two  o'clock  when  we  left  our 
hotel — we  had  planned  to  start  at  nine  in  the 
morning!  But  a  refractory  magneto  in  the  hands 


THE  HARDY  COUNTRY  AND  BERRY  POMEROY 

of  an  English  repair  man — who  had  promised  it 
on  the  day  before — was  an  article  we  could  not 
very  well  leave  behind. 

Our  itinerary — we  never  really  made  one,  except 
in  imagination — called  for  the  night  at  Dorchester. 
We  had  previously  passed  through  the  pleasant  old 
capital  of  the  "Hardy  Country"  and  felt  a  long- 
ing for  a  closer  acquaintance.  But  Dorchester  is 
one  hundred  and  thirty  miles  from  London  and  our 
usual  leisurely  jog  will  never  get  us  there  before 
nightfall — a  fact  still  more  apparent  when  we  find 
nearly  an  hour  has  been  consumed  in  covering  the 
dozen  miles  to  Staines.  We  shall  have  to  open  up 
a  little — a  resolution  that  receives  a  decided  chill 
when  a  gentlemanly  Automobile  Association  scout, 
seeing  the  emblem  on  our  engine  hood,  salutes  us 
with,  "Caution,  Sir!  Police  traps  all  the  way  to 
Basingstoke."  We  take  some  chances  nevertheless, 
but  slow  down  when  we  come  to  a  hedgerow  or 
other  suspicious  object  which  we  fancy  may  afford 
concealment  for  the  despised  motor  "cop."  At 
Basingstoke  a  second  scout  pronounces  the  way 
clear  to  Andover  and  Salisbury  and  the  fine  undu- 
lating road  offers  every  opportunity  to  make  up 
for  lost  time — and  police  traps.  If  the  speed  limit 
had  been  twice  twenty  miles  per  hour,  I  fear  we 

299 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

might — but  we  are  not  bound  to  incriminate  our- 
selves! 

Salisbury's  splendid  spire — the  loftiest  and  most 
graceful  in  all  Britain — soon  arises  athwart  the  sun- 
set sky  and  we  glide  through  the  tortuous  streets 
of  the  town  as  swiftly  as  seems  prudent.  The  road 
to  Blandford  is  equally  good  and  just  at  dusk  we 
enter  the  village  of  Puddletown,  stretching  for  half 
a  mile  along  the  roadside.  Its  name  is  not  pre- 
possessing, but  Puddletown  has  a  church  that  stands 
to-day  as  it  stood  nearly  three  hundred  years  ago, 
for  it  has  not  as  yet  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the 
restorer.  Its  paneled  and  beamed  ceiling  of  Spanish 
chestnut,  innocent  of  paint  or  varnish,  its  oaken 
pews  which  seated  the  Roundheads  and  Royalists 
of  Cromwell's  day,  its  old-fashioned  pulpit  and  its 
queer  baptismal  font,  are  those  of  the  country  church 
of  nearly  three  centuries  ago.  The  village  is  a 
cozy,  beflowered  place  on  a  clear  little  river,  whose 
name,  the  Puddle,  is  the  only  thing  to  preju- 
dice one  against  it.  Just  adjoining  Puddletown  is 
Aethelhampton  Court,  the  finest  country  house  in 
Dorset,  which  has  been  inhabited  by  one  family, 
the  Martins,  for  four  hundred  years. 

Darkness  is  setting  in  when  we  drive  into  the 
courtyard  of  the  King's  Arms  in  Dorchester.  It  is 
a  wild,  windy  evening ;  rain  is  threatening  and  under 

300 


THE  HARDY  COUNTRY  AND  BERRY  POMEROY 

such  conditions  the  comfortable  old  house  seems  an 
opportune  haven  indeed.  It  is  a  characteristic 
English  inn  such  as  Dickens  eulogizes  in  "Pickwick 
Papers" — one  where  "everything  looks — as  every- 
thing always  does  in  all  decent  English  inns — as 
if  the  travelers  had  been  expected  and  their  com- 
forts prepared  for  days  beforehand."  There  is  a 
large,  well-furnished  sitting-room  awaiting  us,  with 
bedrooms  to  match,  and  the  evening  meal  is  ready 
on  a  table  resplendent  with  fresh  linen  and  glitter- 
ing silver.  In  a  cabinet  in  the  corner  of  the  dining- 
room  is  an  elaborate  silver  tea-service  with  the  leg- 
end, "Used  by  His  August  Majesty  King  Edward 
VII.  when  as  Prince  of  Wales  he  was  a  guest  of 
the  King's  Arms,  Dorchester,  on  — "  but  we  have 
quite  forgotten  the  date.  A  rather  recent  and  inno- 
cent tradition,  but  perhaps  the  traveler  of  two  cen- 
turies hence  may  be  duly  impressed,  for  the  silver 
service  will  be  there  if  the  King's  Arms  is  still 
standing.  It  is  an  irregular  old  house,  built  nobody 
knows  just  when,  and  added  to  from  time  to  time 
as  occasion  required.  The  lack  of  design  is  delight- 
fully apparent;  it  is  a  medley  of  scattered  apart- 
ments and  winding  hallways.  It  would  fit  perfectly 
into  a  Dickens  novel — indeed,  with  the  wind  howl- 
ing furiously  outside  and  the  rain  fitfully  lashing 
the  panes  we  think  of  the  stormy  night  at  the 

301 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

Maypole  in  "Barnaby  Rudge."  But  it  has  been 
a  rather  trying  day  and  our  musings  soon  fade  into 
pleasant  dreams  when  we  are  once  ensconced  in  the 
capacious  beds  of  the  King's  Arms. 

One  can  spend  a  profitable  half  day  in  Dor- 
chester and  a  much  longer  time  might  be  consumed 
in  exploring  the  immediate  vicinity.  There  are  two 
fine  churches,  All  Saints',  with  a  tall  slender  spire, 
and  St.  Peter's,  with  a  square,  battlemented  tower 
from  which  peal  the  chimes  of  the  town  clock.  In 
the  latter  church  is  a  tomb  which  may  interest  the 
few  Americans  who  come  to  Dorchester,  since 
beneath  it  is  buried  Rev.  John  White,  who  took 
an  active  part  in  founding  Massachusetts  Colony. 
In  1624  he  despatched  a  company  of  Dorset  men 
to  the  new  colony,  raising  money  for  them,  pro- 
curing their  charter  and  later  sending  out  as  the 
first  governor,  John  Endicott  of  Dorchester,  who 
sailed  for  New  England  in  1629  in  the  "George 
Bona  Ventura."  In  both  churches  there  is  an  un- 
usual number  of  effigies  and  monuments  which  prob- 
ably escaped  because  of  Dorchester's  friendliness 
for  the  Parliamentary  cause — but  none  of  them 
commemorates  famous  people.  Outside  St.  Peter's 
there  is  a  statue  to  William  Barnes,  the  Dorset 
poet,  with  an  inscription  from  one  of  his  own  poems 
which  illustrates  the  quaint  dialect  he  employed: 
302 


THE  HARDY  COUNTRY  AND  BERRY  POMEROY 

"Zoo  now  I  hope  his  kindly  feace 

Is  gone  to  find  a  better  pleace: 

But  still  wi'  vo'k  a-left  behind 

He'll  always  be  a-kept  in  mind." 
The  county  museum,  adjoining  the  church,  con- 
tains one  of  the  best  provincial  collections  in  Eng- 
land. The  vicinity  is  noted  for  Roman  remains  and 
a  number  of  the  most  remarkable  have  found  a 
resting-place  here.  There  are  curiosities  galore  in 
the  shape  of  medieval  implements  of  torture,  among 
them  a  pair  of  heavy  leaden  weights  labeled 
"Mercy,"  which  a  tender-hearted  jailer  ordered  tied 
to  the  feet  of  a  man  hanged  for  arson  as  late  as 
1836,  so  he  would  strangle  more  quickly.  There 
are  relics  of  Jeffreys'  dread  court,  the  chair  he  used 
when  sentencing  the  Dorset  peasants  to  transporta- 
tion and  death  and  the  iron  spikes  on  which  the 
heads  of  the  rebels  were  exposed  to  blacken  in  the 
sun.  There  is  much  besides  horrors  in  Dorchester 
Museum,  though  I  suppose  the  gruesome  and  horri- 
ble will  always  get  the  greater  share  of  attention. 
And  such  things  are  not  without  their  educational 
and  moral  value,  for  they  speak  eloquently  of  the 
progress  the  human  race  has  made  to  render  such 
implements  of  torture  only  objects  of  shuddering 
curiosity. 

To  the  admirer  of  Thomas  Hardy,  the  novelist, 
303 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

Dorchester  will  always  have  a  peculiar  interest,  for 
here  the  master  still  lives,  much  alone,  in  a  little 
house  near  the  town,  his  simple  life  and  habits 
scarcely  differentiating  him  from  the  humblest  Wes- 
sex  peasant.  I  say  "the  novelist,"  for  another 
Thomas  Hardy  was  also  a  Dorchester  man — the 
admiral  who  supported  the  dying  Nelson  at  Trafal- 
gar. The  great  writer,  however,  is  known  to  all 
the  townsmen  and  is  universally  admired  and  re- 
vered. Shortly  after  our  visit  the  people  of  the  town 
essayed  a  fete  in  his  honor,  the  chief  feature  being 
two  plays  adapted  from  Wessex  tales.  Mr.  Hardy, 
though  in  his  seventy-second  year,  followed  the 
rehearsals  closely,  sitting  night  after  night  in  a  dark 
corner  of  the  auditorium.  A  correspondent  de- 
scribed him  as  "a  grave,  gray  little  figure  with  waxed 
moustache  ends  and  bright  vigilant  eyes,  who  rose 
occasionally  to  make  a  suggestion,  speaking  almost 
apologetically  as  if  asking  a  favor."  His  sugges- 
tions usually  had  to  do  with  the  character  and 
effect  of  word  cadences.  Nothing  could  exceed 
his  sensitiveness  to  the  harmonies  of  speech.  "Will 
you  let  me  see  the  book,  please?"  he  would  say, 
"I  think  that  sentence  does  not  sound  right;  I  will 
alter  it  a  little." 

He  also  personally  arranged  the  hornpipe  dance 
by  shepherds  in  the  cottage  where  three  wayfarers 

304 


THE  HARDY  COUNTRY  AND  BERRY  POMEHOY 

take  shelter  from  a  storm.  The  music  was  played 
by  a  fiddler  nearly  eighty  years  old  who  used  to 
make  a  living  by  such  rustic  merrymakings  and  who 
is  perhaps  the  last  survivor  of  the  race  of  fiddlers  in 
Dorset.  All  the  actors  belonged  to  the  town.  One 
is  a  cooper,  another  a  saddler,  and  there  were 
clerks  and  solicitors  and  auctioneers.  The  producer 
who  designed  all  the  scenery  is  a  monument  mason 
and  ex-mayor  of  Dorchester. 

It  is  perhaps  too  early  to  predict  the  place  of 
Thomas  Hardy  in  literature,  though  there  be  those 
who  rank  him  with  George  Eliot.  His  home  town, 
which  he  has  given  to  fame  as  the  Casterbridge  of 
his  tales,  has  no  misgivings  about  the  matter  and 
freely  ranks  him  with  the  immortals.  The  chilling 
philosophy  of  many  of  his  books  has  not  hidden  his 
warm  heart  from  his  townsmen,  who  resent  the 
word  "stony"  applied  to  him  by  an  American 
writer.  They  say  that  his  unpretentious  life,  his 
affability,  his  consideration  for  others  and  his  mod- 
esty, all  teach  the  lessons  of  love  and  hope,  and 
that  nothing  is  farther  from  his  personal  character 
than  misanthropy  or  coldness. 

The  history  of  Dorchester  differs  not  greatly 
from  that  of  many  other  English  towns  of  its  class. 
A  Roman  station  undoubtedly  existed  here.  The 
town  was  mentioned  in  the  Doomsday  Book  and 

305 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

was  a  village  of  good  size  in  the  reign  of  Henry 
VIII.  In  1613  it  was  totally  destroyed  by  fire — 
a  calamity  which  the  citizens  declared  a 
"visitacion  of  God's  wrath,"  to  appease 
which  they  founded  an  almshouse  and 
hospital.  With  business  foresight  they  also 
established  a  brewery,  the  profits  from  which  were 
expected  to  maintain  the  hospital,  and  the  grave 
records  show  no  intimation  of  any  question  whether 
such  a  plan  might  be  acceptable  to  the  Deity  they 
sought  to  placate. 

Dorchester  was  strongly  for  the  Parliament  in  the 
unpleasantness  between  Oliver  and  the  king,  but 
its  loyalty  was  not  very  aggressive,  for  it  surrendered 
to  the  royal  army  with  scarcely  a  show  of  resistance 
— the  more  to  its  discredit,  since  it  had  been  elab- 
orately fortified  and  was  well  supplied  with  muni- 
tions of  war.  It  suffered  severely  for  its  cowardice, 
for  it  was  taken  and  retaken  many  times  during  the 
war  and  its  citizens  subjected  to  numberless  exactions 
and  indignities.  The  ascendency  of  the  common- 
wealth brought  Dorchester  comparative  peace  for 
three  or  four  decades.  The  next  notable  event  in  its 
career  was  the  coming  of  Jeffreys  the  infamous  to 
judge  the  unfortunate  Dorset  men  who  inclined,  or 
were  alleged  to  have  inclined,  towards  the  Duke 
of  Monmouth  in  his  ill-starred  attempt  on  the  throne 

308 


THE  HARDY  COUNTRY  AND  BERRY  POMEROY 

of  England.  To  expedite  matters,  Jeffreys  let  it 
be  understood  that  a  plea  of  guilty  would  predis- 
pose him  to  mercy,  but  the  poor  wretches  who  fell 
into  this  trap  were  sentenced  to  death  or  transpor- 
tation on  their  own  confessions.  The  charge  lodged 
against  most  of  the  unfortunates  was  that  they  were 
''away  from  their  habitacions  att  the  tyme  of  the 
rebellion." 

For  more  than  two  centuries  after  this  carnival 
of  death,  sanctioned  by  a  corrupt  and  vengeful  gov- 
ernment, Dorchester  has  pursued  the  paths  of  un- 
broken peace  and  has  grown  and  prospered  in  a 
quiet  way.  The  fame  of  Thomas  Hardy  attracts 
many  and  the  roving  motor  car  also  brings  an  increas- 
ing number  of  pilgrims,  none  of  whom  go  away 
disappointed.  It  is  a  trim  old  town,  still  picturesque, 
though  modern  improvements  are  making  inroads 
on  its  antique  quaintness.  Its  environs  are  singularly 
beautiful;  the  country  roads  enter  the  town  between 
ranks  of  splendid  trees  and  the  avenues  around  the 
town  are  bordered  with  giant  limes,  sycamores  and 
chestnuts.  The  River  Frome  glides  quietly  past 
the  place  through  reedy  meadows  and  the  smooth 
green  sward  covers  the  ancient  Roman  amphitheatre 
which  adjoins  the  town  on  the  south.  This  is  by 
far  the  most  perfect  work  of  its  kind  in  Britain;  it 
is  about  two  hundred  feet  in  diameter  and  must 
307 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

have  accommodated  some  twelve  thousand  specta- 
tors. It  lies  just  along  the  road  by  which  we  leave 
the  town  and  which  runs  almost  due  west  to  Brid- 
port,  Lyme  Regis  and  Exeter.  For  some  miles 
we  pursue  a  sinuous  course  across  the  barren  coun- 
try and  occasionally  encounter  forbiddingly  steep 
grades.  At  Bridport  we  catch  our  first  glimpse  of 
a  placidly  blue  sea,  which  frequently  flashes  through 
gaps  in  the  hills  for  the  next  twenty  miles. 

At  Lyme  Regis  the  road  pitches  down  a  sharp 
hill  into  the  town,  which  covers  the  slopes  of  a 
ravinelike  valley.  It  is  a  retired  little  seaside  resort, 
though  red  roofs  of  modern  villas  now  contrast 
somewhat  with  its  rural  appearance.  No  railroad 
comes  within  several  miles  of  the  place,  which  has 
a  permanent  population  of  only  two  thousand.  It 
is  not  without  historic  tradition,  for  here  the  Duke 
of  Monmouth  landed  on  his  ill-fated  invasion  to 
which  we  have  already  referred.  The  town  was  a 
favorite  haunt  of  Jane  Austen  and  here  she  located 
one  of  the  memorable  scenes  in  "Persuasion."  It 
is  still  a  very  quiet  place — a  retreat  for  those  seeking 
real  seclusion  and  freedom  from  the  formality  and 
turmoil  of  the  larger  and  more  fashionable  resorts. 
Its  tiny  harbor,  encircled  by  a  crescent-shape  sweep 
of  cliffs,  is  almost  innocent  of  craft  to-day,  though 
there  was  a  time  when  it  ranked  high  among  the 
308 


THE  HARDY  COUNTRY  AND  BERRY  POMEROY 

western  ports.  It  is  one  of  those  delightful  old 
villages  one  occasionally  finds  in  England,  standing 
now  nearly  as  they  did  three  centuries  ago,  while 
the  great  world  has  swept  away  from  them. 

We  wish  we  might  tarry  a  day  in  Lyme  Regis, 
but  our  plans  will  not  permit  it  now.  We  climb 
the  precipitously  steep,  irregular  road  that  takes  us 
out  of  the  place,  though  we  cast  many  backward 
glances  at  the  little  town  and  quiet  blue-green  har- 
bor edged  by  a  scimiterlike  strip  of  silver  sand.  The 
Exeter  road  is  much  the  same  as  that  between  Lyme 
Regis  and  Dorchester — winding,  steep,  narrow  and 
rough  in  places — and  the  deadly  Devonshire  hedge- 
row on  a  high  earthen  ridge  now  shuts  out  our  view 
of  the  landscape  much  of  the  time.  Devon  and 
Cornwall,  with  the  most  charming  scenery  in  Eng- 
land, would  easily  become  a  great  motoring  ground 
if  the  people  would  mend  the  roads  and  eradicate 
the  hedgerows. 

At  Exeter  we  stop  at  the  Rougemont  for  lunch, 
despite  the  recollection  of  pretty  high  charges  on 
a  former  occasion.  It  is  one  of  the  best  provincial 
hotels,  if  it  is  far  from  the  cheapest.  A  drizzling 
rain  is  falling  when  we  leave  the  cathedral  city  for 
Newton  Abbot  and  Totnes,  directly  to  the  south; 
in  the  market-place  of  the  first-named  town  is  the 

309 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

stone  upon  which  William  III.  was  proclaimed  king 
after  his  landing  at  Brixham. 

Totnes,  seven  miles  farther,  has  many  quaint  old 
houses  with  odd  piazzas  and  projecting  timbered 
gables,  which  give  the  streets  a  decidedly  antique 
appearance.  Here,  too,  is  another  famous  stone,  the 
identical  one  upon  which  Brutus  of  Troy  first  set 
foot  when  landing  in  Britain  at  a  date  so  remote 
that  it  can  only  be  guessed  at.  Indeed,  there  be 
wiseacres  who  freely  declare  that  the  Roman  prince 
never  set  foot  on  it  at  all;  but  we  are  in  no  mood 
for  such  scepticism  to-day,  when  cruising  about  in 
a  steady  rain  seeking  "objects  of  interest,"  as  the 
road-book  styles  them.  Of  Totnes  Castle  only  the 
foundations  remain,  though  it  must  have  been  a 
concentric,  circular  structure  like  that  of  Launceston. 
From  its  walls  on  fair  days  there  is  a  lovely,  far- 
reaching  view  quite  shut  out  from  us  by  the  gray 
mist  that  hovers  over  the  valley — a  scene  described 
by  a  writer  more  fortunate  than  we  as  "a  rich  soft 
country  which  stretches  far  and  wide,  a  land  of 
swelling  hills  and  richly  wooded  valleys  and  green 
corn  springing  over  the  red  earth.  Northwards  on 
the  skyline,  the  Dartmoor  hills  lie  blue  and  seem- 
ing infinitely  distant  in  the  light  morning  haze ;  while 
in  the  opposite  direction,  one  sees  a  long  straight 
reach  of  river,  set  most  sweetly  among  the  hills,  up 
310 


THE  HARDY  COUNTRY  AND  BERRY  POMEROY 

which  the  salt  tide  is  pouring  from  Dartmouth  so 
rapidly  that  it  grows  wider  every  moment,  and  the 
bitter  sea  air  which  travels  with  it  from  the  Channel 
reaches  as  far  as  the  battlements  on  which  we 
stand.  Up  that  reach  the  Totnes  merchants,  stand- 
ing on  these  old  walls,  used  to  watch  their  argosies 
sailing  with  the  tide,  homeward  bound  from  Italy 
or  Spain,  laden  with  precious  wines  and  spices." 

But  no  one  who  visits  Totnes — even  though  the 
day  be  rainy  and  disagreeable — should  fail  to  see 
Berry  Pomeroy  Castle,  which  common  consent  de- 
clares the  noblest  ruin  in  all  Devon  and  Cornwall. 
We  miss  the  main  road  to  the  village  of  Berry  and 
appoach  the  ruin  from  the  rear  by  a  narrow,  muddy 
lane  winding  over  steep  grades  through  a  dense 
forest.  We  are  not  sure  whether  we  are  fortunate 
or  otherwise  in  coming  to  the  shattered  haunt  of 
the  fierce  old  de  Pomeroys  on  such  a  day.  Perhaps 
its  grim  traditions  and  its  legends  of  ghostly  habi- 
tants seem  the  more  realistic  under  such  a  lowering 
sky — and  it  may  be  that  the  gloomy  day  comports 
best  with  the  scene  of  desolation  and  ruined  gran- 
deur which  breaks  on  our  vision. 

The  castle  was  an  unusual  combination  of  med- 
ieval fortress  and  palatial  dwelling  house,  the  great 
towers  still  flanking  the  entrance  suggesting  immense 
defensive  strength,  as  does  the  situation  on  the  edge 

311 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

of  a  rocky  precipice.  The  walls  are  pierced  by 
multitudes  of  mullioned  windows — so  many,  indeed, 
an  old  chronicle  records,  that  it  was  "a  day's  work 
for  a  servant  to  open  and  close  the  casements."  In 
some  details  the  more  modern  remnants  of  the  struc- 
ture remind  one  of  Cowdray  Palace — especially 
the  great  window  groups.  Verily,  "ruin  greenly 
dwells"  at  Berry  Pomeroy  Castle.  Ivy  mantles  every 
inch  of  the  walls  and  some  fragments,  rising  tall  and 
slender  like  chimneys,  are  green  to  the  very  tops. 
The  green  sward  runs  riot  over  the  inner  courts  and 
covers  fallen  masses  of  debris;  great  trees,  some  of 
them  doubtless  as  old  as  the  castle  itself,  sway  their 
branches  above  it;  our  pictures  tell  the  story,  per- 
haps better  than  any  words,  of  the  rank  greenness 
that  seems  even  more  intense  in  the  falling  rain. 

One  quite  forgets  the  stirring  history  of  the  castle 
— and  it  is  stirring,  for  does  not  tradition  record 
that  its  one-time  owners  urged  their  maddened 
steeds  to  spring  to  death  with  their  riders  from  the 
beetling  precipice  on  which  the  castle  stands,  rather 
than  to  surrender  to  victorious  besiegers? — I  say  one 
forgets  even  this  in  the  rather  creepy  sensations  that 
come  over  him  when  he  recalls  the  ghostly  legends 
of  the  place.  For  Berry  Pomeroy  Castle  has  one 
of  the  most  blood-curdling  and  best  authenticated 
ghost  stories  that  it  has  been  my  lot  to  read.  It 
312 


THE  HARDY  COUNTRY  AND  BERRY  POMEROY 

has  a  weird  interest  that  warrants  retelling  here  and 
the  reader  who  has  no  liking  for  such  things  may 
skip  it  if  he  chooses. 

"Somewhat  more  than  a  century  ago,  Dr.  Walter 
Farquhar,  who  was  created  a  baronet  in  1796, 
made  a  temporary  sojourn  in  Torquay.  This  phy- 
sician was  quite  a  young  man  at  that  time  and  had 
not  acquired  the  reputation  which,  after  his  settle- 
ment in  London,  procured  him  the  confidence  and 
even  friendship  of  royalty.  One  day,  during  his 
stay  in  Devon,  he  was  summoned  professionally  to 
Berry  Pomeroy  Castle,  a  portion  of  which  building 
was  still  occupied  by  a  steward  and  his  wife.  The 
latter  was  seriously  ill,  and  it  was  to  see  her  that 
the  physician  had  been  called  in.  Previous  to  see- 
ing his  patient  Dr.  Farquhar  was  shown  an  outer 
apartment  and  requested  to  remain  there  until  she 
was  prepared  to  see  him.  This  apartment  was 
large  and  ill-proportioned;  around  it  ran  richly 
carved  panels  of  oak  that  age  had  changed  to  the 
hue  of  ebony.  The  only  light  in  the  room  was 
admitted  through  the  chequered  panes  of  a  gor- 
geously stained  window,  in  which  were  emblazoned 
the  arms  of  the  former  lords  of  Berry  Pomeroy.  In 
one  corner,  to  the  right  of  the  wide  fireplace,  was 
a  flight  of  dark  oaken  steps,  forming  part  of  a  stair- 
case leading  apparently  to  some  chamber  above; 
313 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

and  on  these  stairs  the  fading  gleams  of  summer's 
twilight  shone  through. 

"While  Dr.  Farquhar  wondered,  and,  if  the 
truth  be  told,  chafed  at  the  delay  which  had  been 
interposed  between  him  and  his  patient,  the  door 
opened,  and  a  richly  dressed  female  entered  the 
apartment.  He,  supposing  her  to  be  one  of  the 
family,  advanced  to  meet  her.  Unheeding  him,  she 
crossed  the  room  with  a  hurried  step,  wringing  her 
hands  and  exhibiting  by  her  motions  the  deepest 
distress.  When  she  reached  the  foot  of  the  stairs, 
she  paused  for  an  instant  and  then  began  to  ascend 
them  with  the  same  hasty  step  and  agitated  de- 
meanour. As  she  reached  the  highest  stair  the  light 
fell  strongly  on  her  features  and  displayed  a  counte- 
nance youthful,  indeed,  and  beautiful,  but  in  which 
vice  and  despair  strove  for  mastery.  'If  ever  human 
face,'  to  use  the  doctor's  own  words,  'exhibited 
agony  and  remorse;  if  ever  eye,  that  index  of  the 
soul,  portrayed  anguish  uncheered  by  hope  and 
suffering  without  interval;  if  ever  features  betrayed 
that  within  the  wearer's  bosom  there  dwelt  a  hell, 
those  features  and  that  being  were  then  pres- 
ent to  me.' 

"Before  he  could  make  up  his  mind  on  the  na- 
ture of  this  strange  occurrence,  he  was  summoned 
to  the  bedside  of  his  patient.  He  found  the  lady 

814 


THE  HARDY  COUNTRY  AND  BERRY  POMEROY 

so  ill  as  to  require  his  undivided  attention,  and  had 
no  opportunity,  and  in  fact  no  wish,  to  ask  any 
questions  which  bore  on  a  different  subject  to  her 
illness. 

"But  on  the  following  morning,  when  he  repeated 
his  visit  and  found  the  sufferer  materially  better,  he 
communicated  what  he  had  witnessed  to  the  hus- 
band and  expressed  a  wish  for  some  explanation. 
The  steward's  countenance  fell  during  the  physi- 
cian's narrative  and  at  its  close  he  mournfully 
ejaculated: 

'  'My  poor  wife!  my  poor  wife!' 
"  'Why,  how  does  this  relation  affect  her?' 
"  'Much,  much!'  replied  the  steward,  vehe- 
mently. That  it  should  have  come  to  this!  I 
cannot — cannot  lose  her!  You  know  not,'  he  con- 
tinued in  a  milder  tone,  'the  strange,  sad  history; 
and — and  his  lordship  is  extremely  averse  to  any 
allusion  being  ever  made  to  the  circumstance  or  any 
importance  attached  to  it;  but  I  must  and  will  out 
with  it!  The  figure  which  you  saw  is  supposed  to 
represent  the  daughter  of  a  former  baron  of  Berry 
Pomeroy,  who  was  guilty  of  an  unspeakable  crime  in 
that  chamber  above  us;  and  whenever  death  is 
about  to  visit  the  inmates  of  the  castle  she  is  seen 
wending  her  way  to  the  scene  of  her  crimes  with 
the  frenzied  gestures  you  describe.  The  day  my 

315 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

son  was  drowned  she  was  observed;  and  now  my 
wife!' 

*  'I  assure  you  she  is  better.    The  most  alarming 
symptoms  have  given  way  and  all  immediate  danger 
is  at  an  end.' 

*  1  have  lived  in  and  near  the  castle  thirty  years,' 
was   the   steward's   desponding   reply,    'and   never 
knew  the  omen  fail.' 

4  'Arguments  on  omens  are  absurd,'  said  the 
doctor,  rising  to  take  his  leave.  'A  few  days,  how- 
ever, will,  I  trust,  verify  my  prognostics  and  see  Mrs. 
S recovered.' 

"They  parted,  mutually  dissatisfied.  The  lady 
died  at  noon. 

"Years  intervened  and  brought  with  them  many 
changes.  The  doctor  rose  rapidly  and  deservedly 
into  repute;  became  the  favourite  physician  and 
even  personal  friend  of  the  Prince  Regent,  was 
created  a  baronet,  and  ranked  among  the  highest 
authorities  in  the  medical  world. 

"When  he  was  at  the  zenith  of  his  professional 
career,  a  lady  called  on  him  to  consult  him  about 
her  sister,  whom  she  described  as  sinking,  overcome 
and  heartbroken  by  a  supernatural  appearance. 

'  'I  am  aware  of  the  apparent  absurdity  of  the 
details  which  I  am  about  to  give,'  she  began,  'but 
the  case  will  be  unintelligible   to  you,  Sir   Walter, 
316 


THE  HARDY  COUNTRY  AND  BERRY  POMEROY 

without  them.  While  residing  at  Torquay  last 
summer,  we  drove  over  one  morning  to  visit  the 
splendid  remains  of  Berry  Pomeroy  Castle.  The 
steward  was  very  ill  at  the  time  (he  died,  in  fact, 
while  we  were  going  over  the  ruins,)  and  there 
was  some  difficulty  in  getting  the  keys.  While  my 
brother  and  I  went  in  search  of  them,  my  sister 
was  left  alone  for  a  few  moments  in  a  large  room 
on  the  ground-floor;  and  while  there — most  absurd 
fancy! — she  has  persuaded  herself  she  saw  a  female 
enter  and  pass  her  in  a  state  of  indescribable  distress. 
This  spectre,  I  suppose  I  must  call  her,  horribly 
alarmed  her.  Its  features  and  gestures  have  made 
an  impression,  she  says,  which  no  time  can  efface. 
I  am  well  aware  of  what  you  will  say,  that  nothing 
can  possibly  be  more  preposterous.  We  have  tried 
to  rally  her  out  of  it,  but  the  more  heartily  we  laugh 
at  her  folly,  the  more  agitated  and  excited  does  she 
become.  In  fact,  I  fear  we  have  aggravated  her 
disorder  by  the  scorn  with  which  we  have  treated 
it.  For  my  own  part,  I  am  satisfied  her  impressions 
are  erroneous,  and  rise  entirely  from  a  depraved 
state  of  the  bodily  organs.  We  wish  for  your  opin- 
ion and  are  most  anxious  you  should  visit  her  with- 
out delay.' 

*  'Madam,  I  will  make  a  point  of  seeing  your 
sister  immediately;  but  it  is  no  delusion.     This  I 
317 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

think  it  proper  to  state  most  positively,  and  pre- 
vious to  any  interview.  I,  myself,  saw  the  same 
figure,  under  somewhat  similar  circumstances  and 
about  the  same  hour  of  the  day;  and  I  should 
decidedly  oppose  any  raillery  or  incredulity  being 
expressed  on  the  subject  in  your  sister's  presence.' 

"Sir  Walter  saw  the  young  lady  next  day  and 
after  being  for  a  short  time  under  his  care  she 
recovered. 

"Our  authority  for  the  above  account  of  how 
Berry  Pomeroy  Castle  is  haunted  derived  it  from 
Sir  Walter  Farquhar,  who  was  a  man  even  more 
noted  for  his  probity  and  veracity  than  for  his  pro- 
fessional attainments,  high  as  they  were  rated.  The 
story  has  been  told  as  nearly  as  possible  in  Sir 
Walter's  own  words." 

Yonder  is  the  "ghost's  walk,"  along  that  totter- 
ing wall;  yonder  is  the  door  the  apparition  is  said 
to  enter.  If  you  can  stand  amidst  these  deserted 
ruins  on  a  dark,  lowering  evening  and  feel  no 
qualms  of  nervousness  after  reading  the  tale,  I  think 
you  are  quite  able  to  laugh  all  ghosts  to  scorn. 

We  have  lingered  long  enough  at  Berry  Pomeroy 
— we  can  scarce  cover  the  twenty  miles  to  Ply- 
mouth ere  darkness  sets  in.  But  fortune  favors  us; 
at  Totnes  the  rain  ceases  and  a  red  tinge  breaks 
through  the  clouds  which  obscure  the  western  sky. 

318 


THE  HARDY  COUNTRY  AND  BERRY  POMBROY 

We  have  a  glorious  dash  over  the  wet  road  which 
winds  through  some  of  the  loveliest  of  Devonshire 
landscapes.  Midway,  from  the  hilltop  that  dom- 
inates the  vale  of  the  Erme,  we  get  a  view  of  Ivy 
Bridge,  a  pleasant  village  lying  along  the  clear  river, 
half  hidden  in  the  purple  haze  of  evening;  and  just 
at  dusk  we  glide  into  the  city  of  the  Pilgrim 
Fathers. 


319 


XVIII 

POLPERRO  AND  THE  SOUTH  CORNISH  COAST 

We  did  not  search  our  road-maps  for  Polperro 
because  of  anything  the  guide-books  say  about  it, 
for  these  dismiss  it  as  a  "picturesque  fishing  village 
on  the  South  Devonshire  coast."  There  are  dozens 
of  such  villages  in  Devon  and  Cornwall,  and  only 
those  travelers  whose  feet  are  directed  by  some 
happy  chance  to  Polperro  will  know  how  much  it 
outshines  all  its  rivals,  if,  indeed,  there  are  any 
worthy  to  be  styled  as  such.  Our  interest  in  the 
quaint  little  hamlet  was  aroused  at  a  London  art 
exhibit,  where  a  well-known  English  artist  showed 
some  three  score  clever  sketches  which  arrested  our 
attention  at  once. 

"I  made  them  last  summer  during  a  stay  at  Pol- 
perro," he  said  in  answer  to  our  inquiry. 

"And  where  is  Polperro,  pray?"  we  asked  with 
visions  of  Italy  or  Spain  and  were  taken  aback  not 
a  little  to  learn  that  a  Devonshire  village  afforded 
subject  matter  for  the  sketches.  And  forthwith 
Polperro  was  added  to  the  list  of  places  we  must 
see  on  our  projected  Land's  End  tour.  A  diligent 
320 


POLPERRO  AND  THE  SOUTH  CORNISH  COAST 

search  of  our  maps  finally  revealed  the  name  and 
showed  the  distance  about  twenty  miles  from  Ply- 
mouth. The  road  is  steep  and  winding  and  there 
is  only  a  network  of  narrow  lanes  for  some  miles 
out  of  the  village. 

We  leave  Plymouth  after  a  night's  sojourn  at  the 
Grand  Hotel  and  cross  the  estuary  at  the  Tor 
Point  ferry,  which  makes  trips  at  frequent  intervals. 
A  flat-bottomed  ferry  boat,  held  in  place  against 
the  strong  tides  by  heavy  chains  anchored  at  either 
end,  takes  us  across  for  a  moderate  fare  and  we 
set  out  beneath  a  lowering  sky  to  explore  the  rough 
and  difficult  but  beautiful  bit  of  country  stretching 
along  the  coast  from  Plymouth  to  Fowey  Harbor. 
Indeed,  we  had  in  mind  to  cross  the  estuary  by 
ferry  at  the  latter  place  and  asked  a  garage  employee 
about  the  facilities  for  so  doing. 

"Hi  wouldn't  recommend  it,  sir.  Last  week  a 
gent  with  a  motor  tried  it  and  the  boat  tipped  and 
let  the  car  into  the  water.  Hi  went  down  to  'elp 
them  get  it  out  and  you  could  just  see  the  top  stick- 
ing out  at  low  tide." 

And  so  we  altered  our  route  to  go  around  the 
estuary — some  fifteen  miles — rather  than  chance 
repeating  the  exciting  experience  of  our  fellow-mo- 
torist of  the  week  before.  But  this  is  a  digression 
— I  had  meant  to  say  that  there  is  little  to  engage 

321 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

our  attention  for  several  miles  after  crossing  at  Tor 
Point.  The  country  is  studded  with  rough  hills 
and  our  route  cuts  across  some  of  these,  a  wide 
outlook  often  rewarding  the  steep  climb  to  the  sum- 
mits. We  cautiously  follow  the  sinuous  road  until 
it  pitches  sharply  down  into  the  ravinelike  coomb 
occupied  by  the  Lobes,  East  and  West,  according 
to  their  position  on  the  river.  These  villages  cling 
to  the  steep  hills,  rising  from  either  side  of  the 
river,  which  we  cross  by  a  lichen-covered  bridge 
hung  with  a  multitude  of  fishing  nets.  We  see  a 
confused  medley  of  houses  elbowing  one  another 
out  into  the  roadway  until  their  sagging  gables  nearly 
meet  in  places,  built  apparently  with  sublime  disre- 
gard of  the  points  of  the  compass  and  without  any 
preconceived  plan.  Once  it  was  a  famous  fishing 
port,  but  now  the  industry  is  conducted  on  a  small 
scale  only  and  the  Looes  have  to  depend  largely 
on  vacationists  from  Plymouth  in  summertime.  We 
do  not  linger  here,  but  after  crossing  the  bridge  we 
enter  the  narrow  road  that  cuts  straight  across  the 
hills  to  Polperro.  It  is  a  rough,  hilly  road  and  the 
heavy  grades  shift  the  gears  more  than  once;  but 
it  carries  us  to  splendid  vantage-points  where  we 
pause  to  glance  at  the  landscape.  There  are  wide 
expanses  of  wooded  hills  with  lovely  intersecting 
valleys,  the  predominating  green  dashed  with  broad 


POL.PERRO  AND  THE  SOUTH  CORNISH  COAST 

splotches  of  purple  heather — the  rankest  and  most 
brilliant  of  any  we  saw  in  a  land  famous  for  its 
heather!  Over  all  stretches  the  mottled  sky,  reflect- 
ing its  moods  on  the  varied  scenes  beneath — here  a 
broad  belt  of  sunlight,  yonder  a  drifting  shower, 
for  it  is  one  of  those  fitful  days  that  alternately 
smiles  and  weeps.  We  descend  another  long  hill 
and  enter  the  lane  which  runs  down  the  ravine  into 
the  main  street  of  Polperro. 

The  main  street  of  Polperro!  Was  there  ever 
another  avenue  like  it? — a  cobble-paved,  crooked 
alley  scarce  a  half  dozen  feet  from  curb  to  curb, 
too  narrow  for  vehicles  of  any  kind  to  pass.  The 
natives  come  out  and  stare  in  wonderment  at  our 
presumption  in  driving  a  motor  into  Polperro — and 
we  become  a  little  doubtful  ourselves  when  a  sharp 
turn  bars  our  progress  near  the  post  office.  A  man, 
seeing  us  hesitate,  tells  us  we  cannot  very  well  go 
farther — a  suggestion  with  which  we  quite  agree — 
and  leaving  the  car  surrounded  by  a  group  of  won- 
dering children  we  set  out  on  foot  to  explore  the 
mysteries  of  Polperro. 

I  think  we  can  truthfully  declare  that  of  all  the 
queer  villages  we  saw  in  Britain — and  it  would  be 
a  long  story  to  tell  of  them — no  other  matched  the 
simple,  unpretentious  fisher-town  of  Polperro.  No 
huge  hotel  with  glaring  paint,  no  amusement  pier 

323 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

or  promenade,  none  of  the  earmarks  of  the  con- 
ventional resort  into  which  so  many  fine  old  towns 
have — shall  I  say  degenerated? — are  to  be  seen; 
nothing  but  the  strangest  jumble  of  old  stone  houses, 
wedged  in  the  narrow  ravinelike  valley.  So  irreg- 
ularly are  they  placed,  with  such  a  total  disregard 
of  straight  lines  and  directions,  that  it  seems,  as  one 
writer  has  remarked,  that  they  might  originally  have 
been  built  on  the  hillsides  at  decent  distances  from 
each  other  and  by  some  cataclysm  slid  down  in  a 
solid  mass  along  the  river.  The  streets  are  little 
more  than  footpaths  and  wind  among  a  hundred 
odd  corners,  of  which  the  one  shown  in  our  sketch 
is  only  typical.  We  cross  the  river — at  low  tide 
only  a  shallow  stream — by  the  narrow  high-arched 
bridge,  whose  odd  design  and  lichen-covered  stones 
are  in  perfect  keeping  with  the  surroundings,  and 
come  out  on  the  sea  wall  that  overlooks  the  tiny 
harbor.  A  dozen  old  salts — dreaming,  no  doubt, 
of  their  active  younger  days  on  the  blue  sea  stretch- 
ing out  before  them — are  roused  from  their  reveries 
and  regard  us  curiously.  Evidently  tourists  are  not 
an  everyday  incident  in  Polperro,  and  they  treat  us 
with  the  utmost  civility,  answering  our  queries  in 
broad  Cornish  accent  that  we  have  to  follow  closely 
to  understand.  A  few  fishing  boats  still  go  out  of 
the  town,  but  its  brave  old  days  are  past;  modern 

324 


POLPERRO  AND  THE  SOUTH  CORNISH  COAST 

progress,  while  it  has  left  Polperro  quite  untouched, 
has  swept  away  its  ancient  source  of  prosperity. 
Once  its  harbor  was  a  famous  retreat  for  smugglers, 
who  did  a  thriving  business  along  the  Cornish  coast, 
and  it  is  possible  some  of  these  old  fellows  may 
have  heard  their  fathers  tell  thrilling  tales  of  the 
little  craft  which  slipped  into  the  narrow  inlet  with 
contraband  cargos;  of  wrecks  and  prizes,  with  spoils 
of  merchandise  and  gold,  so  welcome  to  the  needy 
fisherfolk,  and  of  fierce  and  often  deadly  conflicts 
with  the  king's  officers. 

The  tide  is  out  and  a  few  boats  lie  helplessly 
on  their  sides  in  the  harbor;  no  doubt  the  scene  is 
more  animated  and  pleasing  when  the  green  water 
comes  swelling  up  the  inlet  and  fills  the  river  chan- 
nel, now  strewn  with  considerable  unsightly  de- 
bris. A  violent  storm  driving  the  ocean  into  the 
narrow  cleft  where  the  town  lies  must  be  a  fear- 
some spectacle  to  the  inhabitants,  and  fortunately 
it  has  been  well  described  by  Polperro's  historian, 
who  has  told  a  delightful  story  of  the  town. 

"In  the  time  of  storm,"  he  writes,  "Polperro  is 
a  striking  scene  of  bustle  and  excitement.  The 
noise  of  the  wind  as  it  roars  up  the  coomb,  the 
hoarse  rumbling  of  the  angry  sea,  the  shouts  of  the 
fishermen  engaged  in  securing  their  boats,  and  the 
screams  of  the  women  and  children  carrying  the 

325 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

tidings  of  the  latest  disaster,  are  a  peculiarly  melan- 
choly assemblage  of  sounds,  especially  when  heard 
at  midnight.  All  who  can  render  assistance  are 
out  of  their  beds,  helping  the  sailors  and  fishermen; 
lifting  the  boats  out  of  reach  of  the  sea,  or  taking 
the  furniture  of  the  ground  floors  to  a  place  of 
safety.  When  the  first  streak  of  morning  light 
comes,  bringing  no  cessation  of  the  storm,  but  only 
serving  to  show  the  devastation  it  has  made,  the 
effect  is  still  more  dismal.  The  wild  fury  of  the 
waves  is  a  sight  of  no  mean  grandeur  as  it  dashes 
over  the  peak  and  falls  on  its  jagged  summit,  from 
whence  it  streams  down  the  sides  in  a  thousand 
waterfalls  and  foams  at  its  base.  The  infuriated 
sea  sweeps  over  the  piers  and  striking  against  the 
rocks  and  houses  on  the  warren  side  rebounds  to- 
wards the  strand,  and  washes  fragments  of  houses 
and  boats  into  the  streets,  where  the  receding  tide 
leaves  them  strewn  in  sad  confusion." 

A  brisk  rain  begins  as  we  saunter  along  the 
river,  and  we  recall  that  the  car  has  been  left  with 
top  down  and  contents  exposed  to  the  weather. 
We  hasten  back  only  to  find  that  some  of  the  fisher- 
folk  have  anticipated  us — they  have  drawn  the  top 
forward  and  covered  everything  from  the  rain  as 
carefully  as  we  could  have  done — a  thoughtfulness 
for  the  stranger  in  the  village  that  we  appreciate 

326 


POLPERRO  AND  THE  SOUTH  CORNISH  COAST 

all  the  more  for  its  rarity.  And  though  we  left  the 
car  surrounded  by  a  group  of  merry,  curious  children, 
not  a  thing  is  disturbed. 

The  postmaster  is  principal  shopkeeper  and  from 
him  we  learn  something  of  the  town  and  secure  a 
number  of  pictures  which  we  prize,  though  pictures 
are  hopelessly  inadequate  to  give  any  real  idea  of 
Polperro.  As  yet  tourist  visitors  to  the  village  are 
not  numerous,  though  artists  frequently  come  and 
are  no  longer  a  source  of  wonderment  to  the  natives. 
Two  plain  but  comfortable  old  inns  afford  fair  ac- 
commodations for  those  who  wish  to  prolong  their 
stay.  With  the  increasing  vogue  of  the  motor  car, 
Polperro's  guests  are  bound  to  be  on  the  increase, 
though  few  of  them  will  remain  longer  than  an  hour 
or  two,  since  there  is  little  to  detain  one  save  the 
village  itself. 

Lansallos  Church  is  a  splendid  edifice  surrounded 
by  tall  trees  beneath  which  are  mouldering  grave- 
stones upon  which  one  may  read  queer  inscriptions 
and  epitaphs.  There  is  also  an  ancient  water-mill 
just  where  the  road  enters  the  village,  which  still 
does  daily  duty,  its  huge  overshot  wheel  turning 
slowly  and  clumsily  as  the  clear  little  moorland  stream 
dashes  upon  it.  No  famous  man  has  come  forth 
from  the  village,  but  it  produced  a  host  of  hardy 
seamen,  who,  under  such  leaders  as  Drake  and 
327 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

Nelson,  did  their  full  share  in  maintaining  the  un- 
broken naval  supremacy  of  England.  And  not  a 
few  of  those  who  fought  so  valiantly  for  their  country 
gained  their  sea  training  and  developed  their  hardi- 
hood and  resourcefulness  in  the  ancient  and — in 
Devon  and  Cornwall — honorable  occupation  of 
smuggling. 

We  follow  narrow,  hedge-bordered  lanes  north- 
ward for  several  miles  to  regain  the  main  road  from 
Liskeard  to  Lostwithiel;  for  while  we  should  have 
preferred  the  coast  route,  we  have  no  desire  to  try 
conclusions  with  the  ferry  at  Fowey.  The  fitful 
weather  has  taken  another  tack  and  for  half  an 
hour  we  are  deluged,  the  driving  rain  turning  the 
narrow  roads  into  rivers  and  making  progress  ex- 
ceedingly slow.  When  we  reach  the  main  highway 
the  rain  abruptly  ceases  and  the  sky  again 
breaks  into  mottled  patches  of  blue  and  white,  which 
scatter  sunshine  and  shadow  over  the  fields.  The 
country  is  intensely  green  and  we  are  now  in  a  spot 
which  a  good  authority  declares  the  loveliest  inland 
scenery  in  Cornwall  It  is  the  pleasant  vale  of  the 
River  Fowey,  in  the  center  of  which  stands  the 
charming  old  town  of  Lostwithiel,  surrounded  by 
luxuriant  pastures  which  stretch  away  to  the  green 
encircling  hills.  There  is  a  fourteenth-century  bridge 
in  the  town  which  seems  sturdy  for  all  its  six 
328 


POLPERRO  AND  THE  SOUTH  CORNISH  COAST 

hundred  years  of  flood  and  storm;  and  the  church 
spire,  with  its  richly  carved  open-work  lantern,  has 
been  styled  "the  glory  of  Cornwall,"  and  we  will 
agree  that  it  is  one  of  the  glories  of  Cornwall,  in 
any  event.  It  shows  marks  of  cannon  shot,  for  con- 
siderable fighting  raged  round  the  town  during  the 
civil  war. 

So  narrow  and  steep  is  the  street  that  pitches 
down  the  hill  into  Fowey  that  we  leave  the  car  at 
the  top  and  make  the  descent  on  foot.  Indeed,  the 
majority  of  the  streets  of  the  town  are  so  narrow 
and  crooked  that  it  is  difficult  for  a  vehicle  of  any 
size  to  get  about  easily.  From  the  hill  we  have  a 
fine  view  of  the  little  land-locked  harbor,  dotted 
with  fishing  vessels.  It  shows  to-day  a  peculiar  color 
effect — dark  blue,  almost  violet,  out  seaward,  while 
it  fades  through  many  variations  of  greens  and 
blues  into  pale  emerald  near  the  shore.  The  town 
is  clean  and  substantial-looking  and  it  must  have 
presented  much  the  same  appearance  two  hundred 
years  ago — no  doubt  most  of  the  buildings  we  now 
see  were  standing  then.  It  is  now  a  mere  fisher 
village,  somewhat  larger  and  not  quite  so  primitive 
as  Polperro,  though  in  the  day  of  smaller  ships  it 
contended  with  Plymouth  and  Dartmouth  for  dis- 
tinction as  chief  port  of  Cornwall.  It  was  during 
its  period  of  prosperity  and  maritime  importance 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

that  the  two  towers,  yet  standing,  were  erected  to 
guard  the  entrance  of  the  harbor.  A  chain  stretched 
between  these  made  the  town  almost  impregnable 
from  attack  by  sea.  Here  the  old-time  seamen 
dwelt  in  security  and  plotted  smuggling  expeditions 
and  raids  upon  the  French — gentle  occupations 
which  greatly  contributed  to  the  prosperity  of  the 
town.  These  profitable  trades  about  the  middle  of 
the  fifteenth  century  proved  Fowey's  undoing. 
Peace  had  been  declared  with  France,  but  the 
bold  sailors  went  on  with  their  raids  and  captured 
French  vessels  quite  regardless  of  the  treaties  with 
that  nation.  This  so  incensed  King  Edward  IV. 
that  he  caused  numerous  "leading  citizens"  of 
Fowey  to  be  summarily  hanged,  levied  a  heavy  fine 
on  the  town,  and  handed  its  ships  over  to  the  port 
of  Dartmouth.  The  last  proceeding  seems  like  a 
grim  bit  of  humor,  for  Dartmouth  sailors  were  no 
less  offenders  against  France  than  their  unfortunate 
neighbors.  After  this  sad  experience  it  was  long 
ere  Fowey  again  held  up  its  head  and  in  the  mean- 
while it  was  far  distanced  by  its  former  rivals.  Its 
sailors,  who  had  wrought  many  valorous  deeds  in 
the  English  navy,  were  little  heard  of  afterwards 
and  the  rash,  foolish  action  of  the  king  practically 
wiped  out  an  important  port  that  would  still  have 

330 


r*.   *     J\. 


'm 


POLPERRO  AND  THE  SOUTH  CORNISH  COAST 

bred  thousands  of  bold  seamen  to  serve  their  coun- 
try. 

At  the  harbor  wall  a  grizzled  old  fisherman  ap- 
proaches us  and  politely  touching  his  cap  offers  to 
row  us  to  a  number  of  places  which  he  declares  we 
should  see.  We  demur,  not  being  fond  of  row- 
boats;  he  persists  in  his  broad  South-Country  speech 
—to  give  it  is  past  my  linguistic  powers,  though  I 
wish  I  could — "Pardon  me  for  pushing  my  trade; 
it's  the  only  way  I  have  of  earning  a  living  now, 
since  I  gave  up  the  sea."  We  think  it  worth  the 
modest  sum  he  proposes  to  charge  us  for  a  trip  to 
hear  him  talk  and  we  ask  him  about  himself. 

"I  was  a  sailor,  sir,  for  more  than  fifty  years  and 
I  saw  a  lot  of  hardship  in  my  day  with  nothing  to 
show  for  it  now.  It  was  all  right  when  I  was 
young  and  fond  of  roving,  but  as  I  grew  old  it  be- 
gan to  pall  and  I  wished  I  might  have  been  able  to 
lead  a  different  life.  But  I  had  to  stick  to  it  until 
I  was  too  old  to  stand  the  work,  and  I  got  the  little 
boat  here  which  makes  me  a  poor  living — there's 
nothing  doing  except  in  summertime  and  I  have  to 
get  along  as  best  I  can  in  winter." 

"Do  you  own  a  house?" 

"Own  a  house?"  he  echoed  in  surprise  at  our 
ignorance.  Nobody  owns  a  house  here;  the  squire 
who  lives  in  the  big  place  on  the  hill  yonder  owns 
331 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

the  town — and  everybody  in  it.  A  common  man 
hasn't  any  chance  to  own  anything  in  England.  It 
doesn't  seem  fair  and  I  don't  understand  it — but  we 
live  by  it  in  England — we  live  by  it  in  England." 

We  divert  his  bitter  reflections  by  asking  him 
about  the  town. 

"Don't  forget  the  old  Ship  Inn,"  he  said,  "and 
the  church — it  has  the  tallest  tower  in  Cornwall. 
You  can  see  through  the  big  castle  on  the  hill  if 
you  get  permission.  Any  famous  people? — why, 
yes — Sir  Arthur  Quiller-Couch  lives  here.  He's 
our  only  titled  man  and  some  of  his  books,  they 
say,  tell  about  Fowey." 

We  thank  our  sailor  friend  and  repair  to  the 
Ship  Inn,  as  he  counseled  us.  They  show  us  the 
"great  Tudor  room,"  the  pride  of  the  house — a 
large  beamed  and  paneled  apartment  with  many 
black-oak  carvings.  But  the  chief  end  of  the  Ship 
to-day  appears  to  be  liquor  selling,  and  not  being 
bibulously  inclined,  we  depart  for  the  church.  It 
was  built  in  the  reign  of  Edward  IV.,  just  before 
that  monarch  dealt  the  town  its  death-blow  as  a 
port  and  marked  the  end  of  Fowey 's  prosperity. 
The  timber  roof,  the  carved-oak  pulpit  and  stone 
baptismal  font  are  all  unusually  fine  and  there  are 
some  elaborate  monuments  to  old-time  dignitaries  of 
the  town.  Place  House,  the  great  castellated  palace 


PROBUS    CHURCH    TOWER,    CORNWALL 


CORNISH   COAST 

on  the  hill,  with  immense,  elaborately  carved  bow- 
windows,  is  the  dominating  feature  of  the  town. 
Inside  there  is  some  remarkable  open  timberwork 
roofing  the  great  hall  and  much  antique  paneling 
and  carving.  There  is  also  a  valuable  collection  of 
furniture  and  objects  of  art  which  has  accumulated 
in  the  four  hundred  years  that  the  place  has  be- 
longed to  the  Treffry  family.  It  is  more  of  a  pala- 
tial residence  than  a  fortress  and  it  appears  never  to 
have  suffered  seriously  from  siege  or  warfare. 

We  are  soon  away  on  the  highroad  to  Truro, 
which  proves  good  though  steep  in  places.  There 
is  a  fine  medieval  church  at  St.  Austell  and  another 
at  Probus  has  one  of  the  most  striking  towers  we 
saw  in  England.  It  is  of  later  origin  than  the  main 
body  of  the  church;  some  two  hundred  feet  high, 
and  is  surmounted  by  Gothic  pinnacles,  with  carved 
stone  balustrades  extending  between  them.  Near 
the  top  it  is  pierced  by  eight  large  perpendicular 
windows,  two  to  each  side,  and  it  is  altogether  a 
graceful  and  imposing  edifice.  Such  churches  in 
the  poor  little  towns  that  cluster  about  them — no 
doubt  poorer  when  the  churches  were  built — go  to 
show  the  store  the  Cornishmen  of  early  days  set  by 
their  religion,  which  led  them  out  of  their  poverty 
to  rear  such  stately  structures;  but  it  is  quite  likely 
that  a  goodly  part  of  the  profits  of  their  old  occu- 
333 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

pations — wrecking,  smuggling  and  piracy — went  in- 
to these  churches  as  a  salve  to  conscience.  Nor  is 
the  church-building  spirit  entirely  extinct,  as  proven 
by  the  magnificent  towers  of  Truro  Cathedral,  of 
which  I  shall  have  more  to  say  anon  and  which 
soon  breaks  into  our  view. 

As  a  matter  of  variation  we  take  the  southern 
route  by  the  way  of  Helston  from  Truro  to  Pen- 
zance.  This  is  rougher  and  has  more  steep  hills 
than  the  direct  road  through  Rudruth.  Helston  is 
some  ten  miles  north  of  the  Lizard  Peninsula,  where 
there  is  much  beautiful  coast  scenery — especially 
Kynance  Cove.  Coming  up  the  road  along  the 
coast  toward  Marazion,  one  gets  a  perfect  view  of 
the  castle-crowned  bulk  of  the  Cornish  St.  Michael's 
Mount,  the  seat  of  the  St.  Aubyns.  In  the  distance 
it  stands  like  an  immense  pyramid  against  a  wide 
reach  of  sunset  sky,  but  as  we  come  nearer  the 
towers  and  battlements  of  the  castle  come  out  weird 
and  strange;  in  the  purple  shadows  the  whole  vast 
pile  savors  of  enchantment.  Beyond  it  shimmers 
the  wide  calm  of  Penzance  Harbor — as  it  chances, 
dotted  with  the  dark  forms  of  some  fifty  leviathans 
of  the  British  navy.  For  there  is  to  be  a  great 
naval  review  in  Penzance  the  coming  week;  the 
king  and  queen  and  a  host  of  celebrities  are  expected. 
The  town  is  gay  with  decorations  and  delirious  with 

334 


M 

* 

8* 


H  a 


itfflUH 


BRINGEK  ()K 
LIGHT 

Ouirch  of  St.  Pet  rock 
at  1 'ad stow,  where  the 
saint  is  supposed  to 
have  landed  when  he 
introduced  Christian- 
ity into  COrnvvall  in 
the  M.xth  centnrv. 


POLPERRO  AND  THE  SOUTH  CORNISH  COAST 

expectancy  of  the  big  events  to  come.  Graham- 
White,  the  famous  aviator,  is  to  appear  and  there 
are  to  be  many  thrilling  evolutions  and  much 
powder-burning  by  the  royal  fleet.  Hotels  and 
lodging-houses  are  crowded  to  the  limit  and  if  we 
have  ever  been  somewhat  dubious  whether  to  try 
the  hospitality  of  Land's  End  for  the  night,  it  is 
settled  now — we  could  hardly  stay  in  Penzance 
unless  we  camp  on  the  street.  It  was  indeed  a 
bitter  disappointment  to  Penzance  that  the  capri- 
cious Cornish  weather  completely  ruined  the  ex- 
pected fete.  Furious  winds  and  continual  rain 
drove  the  fleet  to  the  more  sheltered  Tor  Bay  and 
the  programme,  on  a  greatly  reduced  scale,  took 
place  there.  Aside  from  the  disappointment,  the 
people  of  the  town  suffered  a  heavy  loss  in  the  large 
sums  they  had  spent  in  anticipation  of  the  event. 
But  Penzance  is  all  unconscious  of  the  fate  in  store 
for  it;  its  streets  are  thronged  and  it  is  fairly  ablaze 
with  the  national  colors  and  elaborate  electrical 
decorations.  We  thread  our  way  slowly  through 
its  streets  into  the  lonely  indifferent  lane  that  winds 
over  steep  and  barren  hills  to  Land's  End. 


336 


XIX 

LAND'S    END    TO    LONDON 

The  first  sight  of  Land's  End  Hotel,  a  low, 
drab-colored  building  standing  on  the  bleak  head- 
land, is  apt  to  beget  in  the  wayfarer  who  approaches 
it  at  sunset  a  feeling  of  regret  that  he  passed  through 
Penzance  without  stopping  for  the  night.  Nor  does 
his  regret  grow  less  when  he  is  assigned  to  ill-fur- 
nished rooms  with  uncomfortable-looking  beds — 
which,  I  may  say,  do  not  belie  their  looks — or  when 
he  sits  down  to  a  dinner  that  is  only  a  slight  improve- 
ment upon  our  memorable  banquet  at  John 
O'Groats.  But  we  did  not  come  to  Land's  End 
to  find  London  hotel  comforts  and  conveniences, 
but  for  purely  sentimental  reasons,  which  should 
preclude  any  fault-finding  if  accommodations  are 
not  just  to  our  liking.  It  was  our  fancy  to  spend 
a  night  at  both  Land's  End  and  John  O'Groats — 
and  it  must  be  largely  imagination  that  attracts  so 
many  tourists  to  these  widely  separated  localities, 
since  there  are  surely  hundreds  of  bits  of  English 
and  Scottish  coast  more  picturesque  or  imposing 
than  either. 

336 


LAND'S    END    TO    LONDON 

But  here  we  are,  in  any  event,  and  we  go  forth 
in  the  gray  twilight  to  take  note  of  our  surroundings. 
An  old  fellow  who  has  been  watching  us  closely 
since  our  arrival  follows  us  and  in  a  language  that 
puzzles  us  a  little  urges  the  necessity  of  his  services 
as  guide  if  we  are  to  see  the  wonders  of  Land's 
End.  We  are  glad  enough  to  have  his  assistance 
and  he  leads  us  toward  the  broken  cliffs,  thrusting 
their  rugged  bulk  far  into  the  white-capped  waves 
which  come  rolling  landward.  The  sky  and  sea 
are  still  tinged  with  the  hues  of  sunset  and  a  faint 
glow  touches  the  reddish  rocks  along  the  shores.  It 
is  too  late  for  the  inspiring  effect  shown  in  Mr. 
Moran's  wonderful  picture — had  we  been  an  hour 
earlier  we  might  have  beheld  such  a  scene.  Sub- 
dued purplish  hues  now  prevail  and  a  dark  violet- 
colored  sea  thunders  upon  the  coast.  The  wind  is 
blowing — to  our  notion,  a  gale,  though  our  old 
guide  calls  it  a  stiff  breeze. 

"A  'igh  wind,  sir?  Wot  would  you  call  a  wind 
that  piles  up  the  waves  so  you  can't  see  yonder 
lighthouse,  that's  two  hundred  and  fifty  feet  tall? 
That's  wot  I'd  call  a  'igh  wind,  sir.  And  you'd 
be  drenched  to  the  skin  in  a  minute  standing  where 
you  are." 

We  revise  our  ideas  of  high  winds  accordingly, 
but  a  stiff  breeze  is  quite  enough  for  us,  especially 
337 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

when  the  old  man  urges  us  to  come  out  upon  what 
seems  to  us  an  exceedingly  precarious  perch — be- 
cause it  is  the  "last  rock  in  England."  It  stands 
almost  sheer  as  a  chimney  with  the  sea  foaming  in 
indescribable  fury  some  fifty  or  sixty  feet  below, 
and  we  have  to  decline,  despite  our  guide's  insist- 
ence that  we  are  missing  the  chief  sensation  of 
Land's  End.  It  was  no  doubt  this  identical  spot 
which  so  impressed  John  Wesley,  who  visited 
Land's  End  in  1 743,  when  he  made  his  famous 
preaching  tour  in  Cornwall. 

"It  was  an  awful  sight,"  he  wrote.  "But  how 
will  this  melt  away  when  God  ariseth  in  judgment. 
The  sea  beneath  doth  indeed  boil  like  a  pot.  One 
would  indeed  think  the  sea  to  be  hoary!  But 
though  they  swell,  they  cannot  prevail.  He  shall 
set  the  bounds  which  they  cannot  pass!"  But  the 
great  preacher  did  not  say  whether  he  stood  on 
the  "last  rock"  or  not. 

We  follow  our  guide  in  a  strenuous  scramble 
over  the  huge  rocks  to  reach  particular  viewpoints, 
and,  indeed,  there  are  many  awe-inspiring  vistas  of 
roaring  ocean  and  rock-bound  coast.  Everywhere 
the  sea  attacks  the  shore  in  seeming  fury,  the  great 
foam-crested  waves  sweeping  against  the  jagged 
edges  and  breaking  into  a  deluge  of  salt  spray. 

"I've  seen  more  than  one  ship  go  to  pieces  on 
838 


LAND'S    END    TO    LONDON 

these  rocks  in  winter  storms,"  says  our  guide.  "At 
the  last  wreck  twenty-seven  lives  were  lost.  I 
recovered  one  body  myself — a  fine  Spanish-looking 
gentleman  six  feet  three  inches  tall,"  he  goes  on, 
with  an  evident  relish  for  gruesome  details. 

"The  winter  storms  must  be  terrible,  indeed," 
we  venture. 

"You  can't  imagine  how  dreadful,"  he  answers. 
"I've  seen  the  sea  so  rough  that  for  three  months 
no  boat  could  reach  yonder  lighthouse  a  mile  away; 
but  the  keeper  was  lucky  to  have  food  and  he  kept 
his  light  shining  all  the  time.  It's  a  dreary,  lonely 
country  in  winter  time,  but  more  people  would 
come  if  they  only  knew  what  an  awful  sight  it  is 
to  see  the  sea  washing  over  these  headlands." 

The  same  story  is  told — in  more  polished  lan- 
guage— by  a  writer  who  spent  the  winter  in  Corn- 
wall and  often  visited  Land's  End  on  stormy  nights : 
"The  raving  of  the  wind  among  the  rocks;  the  dark 
ocean — exceedingly  dark  except  when  the  flying 
clouds  were  broken  and  the  stars  shining  in  the 
clear  spaces  touched  the  big  black  incoming  waves 
with  a  steely  gray  light;  the  jagged  isolated  rocks, 
on  which  so  many  ships  have  been  shattered,  rising 
in  awful  blackness  from  the  spectral  foam  that  ap- 
peared and  vanished  and  appeared  again;  the  mul- 
titudinous hoarse  sounds  of  the  sea,  with  throbbing 
339 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

and  hollow  booming  noises  in  the  caverns  beneath 
— all  together  served  to  bring  back  something  of 
the  old  vanished  picture  or  vision  of  Bolerium  as 
we  first  imagine  it.  The  glare  from  the  various 
lighthouses  visible  at  this  point  only  served  to 
heighten  the  inexpressibly  sombre  effect,  since  shin- 
ing from  a  distance  they  make  the  gloomy  world 
appear  vaster.  Down  in  the  south,  twenty-five 
miles  away,  the  low  clouds  were  lit  up  at  short 
intervals  by  wide  white  flashes,  as  of  sheet  lightning, 
from  the  Lizard  light,  the  most  powerful  of  all 
lights,  the  reflection  of  which  may  be  seen  at  a 
distance  of  sixty  or  seventy  miles  at  sea.  In  front 
of  the  Land's  End  promontory,  within  five  miles 
of  it,  was  the  angry  red  glare  from  the  Longships 
tower,  and  further  away  to  the  left  the  white  revolv- 
ing light  of  the  Wolf  lighthouse." 

Darkness  has  fallen  and  almost  blotted  out  the 
wild  surroundings  save  for  the  gleams  which  flash 
from  the  lighthouses  across  the  somber  waters.  We 
wend  our  way  back  to  our  inn  to  rest  as  best  we 
may  in  anything  but  comfortable  beds  after  an  un- 
usually strenuous  day;  we  have  traveled  but  one 
hundred  and  twenty  miles  since  leaving  Plymouth 
in  the  morning,  but  we  have  seen  so  much  and  had 
such  varied  experiences  that  we  have  a  dim  feeling 
of  having  come  many  times  as  far. 
340 


LAND'S   END   TO    LONDON 

A  glorious  morning  gives  us  the  opportunity  of 
seeing  the  wild  coast  at  its  best.  A  dark  blue  sea 
is  breaking  on  the  reddish  brown  rocks  and  chafing 
into  white  foam  at  their  feet.  We  wander  out  on 
the  headland  to  get  a  farewell  glimpse  of  the  scene 
— for  there  is  little  to  tempt  one  to  linger  at  Land's 
End;  you  may  see  it  all  at  a  sunset  and  sunrise. 
There  is  no  historic  ruin  on  the  spot,  and  surely 
any  thought  of  the  hotel  will  hasten  your  departure 
if  you  ever  had  any  intention  of  lingering. 

Sennan,  a  forlorn  collection  of  stone  huts  about 
a  mile  from  Land's  End,  is  worth  noting  only  as  a 
type  of  the  few  tiny  villages  in  the  bit  of  barren 
country  beyond  Penzance  and  St.  Ives.  There  is 
nothing  to  catch  the  artistic  eye  in  these  bleak  little 
places;  they  lack  the  quaintness  of  Polperro  or  St. 
Ives  and  the  coziness  and  color  of  the  flower-em- 
bowered cottages  of  Somerset  and  Hampshire.  The 
isolated  farmhouses  show  the  same  characteristics 
and  a  description  by  a  writer  who  lived  in  one  of 
these  during  the  winter  months  is  full  of  interest: 

"Life  on  these  small  farms  is  incredibly  rough. 
One  may  guess  what  it  is  like  from  the  outward 
aspect  of  such  places.  Each,  it  is  true,  has  its 
own  individual  character,  but  they  are  all  pretty 
much  alike  in  their  dreary,  naked  and  almost 
squalid  appearance.  Each,  too,  has  its  own  an- 

341 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

cient  Cornish  name,  some  of  these  very,  fine  or  very 
pretty,  but  you  are  tempted  to  rename  them  in  your 
own  mind  Desolation  Farm,  Dreary  Farm,  Stony 
Farm,  Bleak  Farm  and  Hungry  Farm.  The  farm- 
house is  a  small,  low  place  and  invariably  built  of 
granite,  with  no  garden  or  bush  or  flower  about  it. 
The  one  I  stayed  at  was  a  couple  of  centuries  old, 
but  no  one  had  ever  thought  of  growing  anything, 
even  a  marigold,  to  soften  its  bare,  harsh  aspect. 
The  house  itself  could  hardly  be  distinguished  from 
the  outhouses  clustered  round  it.  Several  times  on 
coming  back  to  the  house  in  a  hurry  and  not  exer- 
cising proper  care  I  found  I  had  made  for  the  wrong 
door  and  got  into  the  cow-house,  or  pig-house,  or 
a  shed  of  some  sort,  instead  of  into  the  human 
habitation.  The  cows  and  other  animals  were  all 
about  and  you  came  through  deep  mud  into  the 
living-room.  The  pigs  and  fowls  did  not  come 
in  but  were  otherwise  free  to  go  where  they  liked. 
The  rooms  were  very  low;  my  hair,  when  I  stood 
erect,  just  brushed  the  beams;  but  the  living-room 
or  kitchen  was  spacious  for  so  small  a  house,  and 
had  the  wide  old  open  fireplace  still  common  in  this 
part  of  the  country.  Any  other  form  of  fireplace 
would  not  be  suitable  when  the  fuel  consists  of 
furze  and  turf." 

Such  are  the  towns  and  farmhouses  of  this  far- 
342 


LAND'S    END   TO    LONDON 

thest  Cornwall  to-day — a  country  once  prosperous 
on  account  of  tin  and  copper  mines  which  are  all 
now  abandoned.  I  doubt  if  there  is  a  more  poverty- 
stricken  rural  section  in  the  Kingdom  than  Corn- 
wall. I  noted  in  a  paper  edited  by  a  socialist  candi- 
date for  the  House  of  Commons  a  curious  outburst 
over  a  donation  made  by  the  king  to  the  poor  of 
Cornwall,  which  was  accompanied  by  a  little  hom- 
ily from  His  Majesty  on  the  necessity  of  the  bene- 
ficiaries helping  themselves.  The  article  is  so  sig- 
nificant in  the  light  it  throws  on  certain  social  con- 
ditions and  as  illustrating  a  greater  degree  of  free- 
dom of  speech  than  is  generally  supposed  to  exist 
in  England  that  I  feel  it  worth  quoting: 

"Although  we  do  not  doubt  the  King's  longing 
to  help  all  his  people,  we  must  be  forgiven  if  we 
refuse  to  be  impressed  by  his  apparent  intensity 
of  feeling.  Not  that  we  blame  the  King.  In  order 
to  feel  decently  about  the  poor,  one  must  have 
'had  some/  so  to  speak.  And  we  can  hardly 
imagine  that  King  George  knows  much  concerning 
the  objects  of  his  sympathy,  when  we  consider  the 
annual  financial  circumstances  of  his  own  compact 
little  family.  In  the  year  that  is  ending  they  will 
have  drawn  between  them  the  helpful  pittance  of 
six  hundred  thirty-four  thousand  pounds.  This  is 
exclusive  of  the  income  of  the  Prince  of  Wales, 
343 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

derived  from  the  revenues  of  the  Duchy  of  Corn- 
wall. And  even  if  this  sum  has  been  badly  drained 
by  Yuletide  beneficence  (as  faintly  threatened  in 
the  Church  Army  donation)  the  New  Year  will 
bring  sure  replenishment  of  the  royal  purse. 

"We  should  not  have  felt  called  upon  to  men- 
tion these  little  details  were  it  not  for  the  offensive 
phrase — 'may  they  show  their  gratitude  by  industry 
and  vigorous  efforts  to  help  themselves.'  How  can 
the  poor  devils  who  live  in  the  foetid  hovels  which 
dot  the  Duchy  of  Cornwall  'help  themselves?' 
Out  of  their  shameful  earnings — when  they  have 
any  earnings — they  must  first  pay  toll  to  the  bloated 
rent-roll  of  the  King's  infant  son.  Out  of  their 
constant  penury  they  must  help  to  provide  an  extrav- 
agant Civil  List,  to  enable  their  Monarch  to  lec- 
ture on  self-help  at  the  end  of  a  donation  of  twenty- 
five  pounds.  Help  themselves?  Show  their  grati- 
tude? How  can  they  help  themselves  when  the 
earth  was  stolen  from  them  before  their  birth,  when 
their  tools  of  production  are  owned  and 
controlled  by  a  group  of  moneyed  parasites, 
when  their  laws  are  made  and  administered 
by  the  class  which  lives  on  their  labours 
and  fattens  on  their  helplessness?  Show  their 
gratitude?  Heaven  have  mercy  upon  us! 
What  have  they  to  be  grateful  for — these  squalid, 

344 


LAND'S   END   TO   LONDON 

dependent,  but  always  necessary  outcasts  of  our 
civilization?" 

I  fear  this  is  pretty  much  of  a  digression,  though 
I  think  an  interesting  one.  Not  all  of  Cornwall 
shows  evidence  of  such  poverty — the  country  stead- 
ily improves  as  we  hasten  to  the  fine  old  town  of 
Truro  and  there  is  much  good  country  beyond. 
Though  we  have  come  but  thirty-six  miles  from 
Land's  End,  the  indisposition  of  one  of  our  party 
makes  it  advisable  to  pause  in  the  old  Cornish  cap- 
ital, where  we  may  be  sure  of  comfortable  quarters 
at  the  Red  Lion. 

We  find  this  a  commodious,  substantial  struc- 
ture, built  about  two  and  a  half  centuries  ago,  with 
a  fine  entrance  hall  from  which  a  black-oak  stair- 
way leads  to  the  upper  floors.  Its  accommodations 
and  service  seem  to  average  with  the  best  provin- 
cial hotels  in  towns  the  size  of  Truro,  and,  alto- 
gether, the  Red  Lion  is  perhaps  as  good  a  place 
to  spend  a  day  of  enforced  idleness  as  one  is  likely 
to  come  across. 

The  town  itself  has  little  enough  to  interest  the 
stranger,  as  I  found  in  wandering  about  for  some 
hours.  Even  the  splendid  cathedral  lacks  antiquity 
and  historic  association,  for  it  still  wants  a  few  fin- 
ishing touches.  It  has  been  about  thirty  years  in 
building  and  more  than  a  million  dollars  has  been 
345 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

expended  in  the  work.  The  exterior  conforms  to 
the  best  early  English  traditions,  the  most  striking 
feature  being  the  three  splendid  towers — the  cen- 
tral one  rising  to  a  height  of  two  hundred  and  fifty 
feet.  The  interior  is  somewhat  glaring  and  bare, 
owing  largely  to  the  absence  of  stained-glass  win- 
dows, of  which  there  are  only  a  few.  A  portion 
of  the  old  parish  church  is  included  in  the  building 
and  contains  a  few  ancient  monuments  of  little  im- 
portance. On  the  whole,  Truro  Cathedral  is  a 
fine  example  of  modern  church  architecture  and 
proves  that  the  art  is  not  a  lost  one  by  any 
means.  I  was  fortunate  in  happening  to  be  inside 
during  an  organ  rehearsal  and  more  majestic  and 
inspiring  music  I  never  heard  than  the  solemn  melo- 
dies which  filled  the  vast  vacant  building. 

We  are  ready  for  the  road  after  a  day's  sojourn 
in  Truro,  and  depart  in  a  steady  rain  which  con- 
tinues until  nightfall.  Our  road — which  we  have 
traversed  before — by  way  of  St.  Columb  Major  and 
Camelford  to  Launceston,  is  hilly  and  heavy  and  in 
the  pouring  rain  we  make  only  slow  progress.  The 
gray  mist  envelops  the  landscape;  but  it  matters 
little,  for  the  greater  part  of  our  road  runs  between 
the  dirt  fences  I  have  described  heretofore,  which 
shut  out  much  of  the  country,  even  on  fine  days. 
St.  Columb  and  Camelford  are  dreary,  angular  little 
346 


LAND'S   END    TO    LONDON 

towns  stretching  closely  along  the  highroad,  quite 
unattractive  in  fine  weather  and  under  present  con- 
ditions positively  ugly.  Camelford,  some  say,  is 
the  Camelot  of  the  Arthurian  romances,  but  surely 
no  vestige  of  romance  lingers  about  it  to-day.  From 
here  we  make  a  wild  dash  across  the  moor  to 
Launceston — the  rain  is  falling  more  heavily  and 
the  wind  blowing  a  gale.  Our  meter  seldom 
registers  under  forty  miles,  a  pace  that  lands  us 
quickly  at  the  door  of  the  White  Hart;  we  are 
damp  and  cold  and  the  old  inn  seems  a  timely 
haven,  indeed.  A  change  of  raiment  and  warm 
luncheon  makes  us  feel  more  at  peace  with  the 
world,  but  we  do  not  muster  courage  to  venture 
out  in  the  storm  again.  Perhaps  if  we  could  have 
foreseen  that  the  following  day  would  be  no  better, 
we  should  have  resumed  our  journey.  Indeed,  the 
next  morning  the  storm  that  drove  the  fleet  away  from 
Penzance  was  in  full  sway  over  Cornwall  and  a 
dreary,  rain-swept  country  it  was.  The  road  north- 
ward to  Holsworthy  and  Great  Torrington  is  little 
else  but  a  narrow  and  hilly  lane,  though  as  dreary  a 
section  as  one  will  find  in  Cornwall  or  Devon,  and 
here,  also,  the  hedges  intercept  our  view  much  of 
the  way.  The  towns,  too,  are  quite  devoid  of 
interest  save  the  fine  Perpendicular  church  which 
towers  over  Holsworthy.  Bideford,  famous  in 

347 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

Kingsley's  "Westward  Ho!"  and  Barnstaple,  with 
its  potteries  which  produce  the  cheap  but  not  inartis- 
tic "Barum  ware,"  we  have  visited  before  and  both 
have  much  worth  seeing.  We  are  now  out  of  the 
zone  of  the  storm  and  the  weather  is  more  tolerable ; 
we  have  really  been  suffering  from  the  cold  in  mid- 
summer— not  an  uncommon  thing  in  Britain. 

There  are  two  first-class  old  inns  at  Taunton — 
on  different  occasions  people  of  the  town  had 
assured  us  that  each  was  the  best — and  though 
Baedeker  gives  the  London  the  preference  and 
honors  it  with  the  much  coveted  star,  we  thought 
the  Castle  equally  good.  It  is  a  gray-stone,  ivy- 
covered  building  near  the  castle  and  if  our  luncheon 
may  be  taken  as  an  index,  its  service  is  all  that 
can  be  desired. 

A  little  way  out  of  Taunton  we  notice  a  monu- 
ment a  short  distance  from  the  roadside  and  easily 
identify  it  from  pictures  which  we  have  seen  as 
the  memorial  erected  to  commemorate  the  victory 
of  King  Alfred  over  the  Danes  at  Sedgemoor.  In 
olden  times  this  whole  section  was  a  vast  marsh  in 
which  was  the  Isle  of  Athelney,  surrounded  by  an 
almost  impenetrable  morass.  The  king  and  a  band 
of  faithful  followers  built  a  causeway  to  the  island, 
which  served  as  a  retreat  while  marshalling  sufficient 
force  to  cope  with  the  invaders.  The  rally  of  the 
348 


LAND'S   END   TO   LONDON 

Saxons  around  the  intrepid  king  finally  resulted  in 
a  signal  victory,  which  broke  the  Danish  power 
in  England.  Alfred  built  an  abbey  near  the  spot 
as  a  mark  of  pious  gratitude  for  his  success,  but 
scarcely  a  trace  remains  of  the  structure  to-day.  In 
the  same  vicinity  is  supposed  to  have  occurred  the 
famous  incident  of  King  Alfred  and  the  cakes, 
which  he  allowed  to  burn  while  watching  them. 
Alfred  was  then  in  hiding,  disguised  as  a  farm 
laborer,  and  received  a  severe  berating  from  the 
angry  housewife  for  his  carelessness. 

But  Sedgemoor  is  historic  in  a  double  sense,  for 
here  the  conflict  occurred  between  the  forces  of 
James  II.  and  the  ill-fated  Duke  of  Monmouth,  to 
which  we  have  previously  referred.  The  rebels 
planned  a  night  attack  on  the  royal  army,  and, 
knowing  that  carelessness  and  debauchery  would 
prevail  in  the  king's  camp  on  Sunday,  they  chose 
that  day  for  the  assault.  The  accidental  discharge 
of  a  pistol  gave  warning  of  the  approach  of  the 
assailants  and  they  had  the  farther  misfortune  to 
be  hopelessly  entangled  in  the  deep  drainage  ditches 
which  then  (as  now)  intersected  the  valley.  The 
result  was  a  disastrous  defeat  for  the  Duke's  follow- 
ers, of  whom  a  thousand  were  slain.  Monmouth 
himself  was  discovered  by  his  enemies  after  two 
days'  search,  hiding  in  a  ditch,  and  was  duly  exe- 
849 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

cuted  in  London  Tower.  Some  five  hundred  of 
his  followers — mostly  ignorant  peasants — were 
hanged  at  Taunton  and  Dorchester  by  orders  of 
the  infamous  Jeffreys.  This  battle,  which  took 
place  on  Sunday,  July  5,  1585,  was  the  last  of 
any  consequence  to  be  fought  on  English  soil.  The 
historic  field  to-day  is  green  and  prosperous-looking 
and  the  only  indication  that  it  was  once  a  marshy 
fen  is  the  ditches  which  drain  its  surplus  waters. 

We  pass  Glastonbury  and  Wells,  which  might 
well  detain  us  had  we  not  visited  them  previously, 
for  in  all  England  there  are  few  towns  richer  in  tra- 
dition and  history  than  the  former;  and  the  latter's 
cathedral  no  well-informed  traveler  would  wish  to 
miss.  Bath,  we  know  from  several  previous  so- 
journs, affords  an  unequalled  stopping-place  for  the 
night  and  we  soon  renew  acquaintance  at  the  Em- 
pire Hotel,  where  we  are  now  fairly  well  known. 
Our  odometer  shows  an  unusually  long  day's  run, 
much  of  which  was  under  trying  conditions  of  road 
and  weather.  This  hotel  belongs  to  a  syndicate 
which  owns  several  others,  in  London  and  at  var- 
ious resorts  throughout  the  country.  A  guest  who 
enters  into  a  contract  may  stay  the  year  round  at 
these  hotels  for  a  surprisingly  low  figure,  going  from 
one  to  the  other  according  to  his  pleasure — to  Folke- 
stone, for  instance,  if  he  wishes  the  seaside,  or  to 
350 


LAND'S    END   TO   LONDON 

London  if  he  inclines  towards  the  metropolis. 
Many  English  people  of  leisure  avail  themselves  of 
this  plan,  which,  it  would  seem,  has  its  advantages 
in  somewhat  relieving  the  monotony  of  life  in  a 
single  hotel. 

Though  we  have  been  in  Bath  several  times, 
something  has  always  interfered  with  our  plan  to 
visit  the  abbey  church  and  we  resolve  to  make 
amends  before  we  set  out  Londonward.  There 
are  few  statelier  church  edifices  in  the  island — the 
"Lantern  of  England,"  as  the  guide-books  style  it, 
on  account  of  its  magnificent  windows.  These  are 
mainly  modern  and  prove  that  the  art  of  making 
stained  glass  is  far  from  lost,  as  has  sometimes  been 
insisted.  So  predominating  are  the  windows,  in 
fact,  that  one  writer  declares,  "It  is  the  beauty  of 
a  flower  a  little  overblown,  though  it  has  its  charms 
just  the  same."  The  most  remarkable  of  all  is  the 
great  western  group  of  seven  splendid  windows 
illustrating  biblical  subjects  in  wonderfully  harmon- 
ious colors.  As  may  be  imagined,  the  interior  is 
unusually  well  lighted,  though  the  soft  color  tones 
prevent  any  garish  effect.  The  intricate  tracery  of 
the  fine  fan  vaulted  ceiling  is  clearly  brought  out 
and  also  the  delicate  carving  on  the  screen — a  mod- 
ern restoration,  by  the  way.  The  monuments  are 
tasteless  and,  in  the  main,  of  little  importance,  though 

351 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

our  attention  is  naturally  arrested  by  a  memorial 
to  "William  Bingham,  Senator  of  the  United  States 
of  America,"  who  died  at  Bath  in  1804. 

The  exterior  of  the  abbey — they  tell  us — has 
many  architectural  defects,  though  these  are  not 
apparent  to  the  layman.  The  walls  are  supported 
by  flying  buttresses  and  the  west  front  shows  cur- 
ious sculptures  representing  the  angels  upon  Jacob's 
ladder.  The  tower,  one  hundred  and  sixty-five 
feet  in  height,  is  a  pure  example  of  English  Perpen- 
dicular and  is  rather  peculiar  in  that  it  is  oblong 
rather  than  square. 

As  we  leave  the  town  we  cannot  but  admire  its 
cleanliness  and  beautiful  location.  It  skirts  both 
banks  of  the  River  Avon  and  is  surrounded  by  an 
amphitheater  of  wooded  hills.  To  our  notion  it  is 
the  finest  of  inland  English  resort  towns  and  certainly 
none  has  a  more  varied  past,  nor  has  any  other 
figured  so  extensively  in  literature.  It  is  about  one 
hundred  miles  from  London  by  road,  and  is  a 
favorite  goal  for  the  motorist  from  that  city. 

The  road  to  London  is  a  fine  broad  highway 
leading  through  Marlborough  and  Reading.  It 
proves  a  splendid  farewell  run  to  our  third  long  mo- 
tor tour  through  Britain;  we  have  covered  in  all 
nearly  twenty  thousand  miles  of  highways  and  by- 
ways during  varying  weather.  If  there  has  been 
862 


LAND'S    END    TO   LONDON 

much  sunshine,  there  have  also  been  weeks  of  rain 
and  many  lowering  gloomy  days.  There  is  scarce 
an  historic  shrine  of  importance  in  the  Kingdom 
that  has  escaped  us  and  we  have  visited  hundreds 
of  odd  corners  not  even  mentioned  in  the  guide- 
books. And,  best  of  all,  we  have  come  to  know 
the  people  and  have  gained  considerable  familiarity 
with  their  institutions,  which  has  not  lessened  our 
respect  and  admiration  for  the  Motherland.  Indeed, 
I  feel  that  our  experience  sufficiently  warrants  a 
chapter  on  the  English  at  home — as  we  saw  them 
— and  I  make  no  apology  for  concluding  this  book 
with  such.  It  is  not  free  from  criticism,  I 
know,  but  could  an  honest  observer  write  more  fav- 
orably of  our  own  country — if  conditions  were  such 
that  he  might  tour  our  populous  states  as  thor- 
oughly as  we  have  done  Britain? 

Our  last  day  on  the  road  fulfills  the  ideal  of 
English  midsummer;  the  storm  has  passed,  leaving 
the  country  fresh  and  bright;  green  fields  alternate 
with  the  waving  gold  of  the  ripening  harvest,  and 
here  and  there  we  pass  an  old  village  or  a  solitary 
cottage  by  the  roadside — all  typical  of  the  rural 
England  we  have  come  to  love  so  much.  We 
drive  leisurely  over  the  fine  road  and  linger  an  hour 
or  two  in  Marlborough  after  luncheon  at  the  Ailes- 
bury  Arms,  whose  excellence  we  have  proven  on 

353 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

previous  occasions.  We  find  an  antique-shop  here 
with  a  store  of  old  silver  that  rivals  our  discovery 
in  Largo,  and  the  prices  asked  are  no  higher. 

From  Reading  we  follow  the  Thames  River 
road,  which  for  some  miles  skirts  the  very  shore 
of  the  historic  stream  and  passes  within  a  distant 
view  of  the  towers  of  Windsor,  rising  in  all  their 
romantic  majesty  against  the  sunset  sky.  From 
Windsor  we  follow  the  familiar  road  to  the  heart 
of  the  teeming  metropolis  and  our  third  long  motor 
pilgrimage  in  Summer  Britain  is  at  its  close. 


354 


XX 

THE   ENGLISH  AND    THEIR   INSTITUTIONS 

One  who  has  spent  many  months  in  the  United 
Kingdom,  traveling  about  twenty  thousand  miles 
by  motor  and  considerably  by  train,  and  who  has 
met  and  conversed  with  the  common  people  of 
every  section  of  the  country  in  the  most  retired  nooks 
and  in  metropolitan  cities,  may,  I  hope  without  un- 
due assumption,  venture  a  few  remarks  on  the  Eng- 
lish people  and  their  institutions.  One  would  be  a 
dull  observer  indeed  if  he  did  not,  with  the  oppor- 
tunities which  we  had,  see  and  learn  many  things 
concerning  present-day  Britain. 

It  is  the  custom  of  some  American  writers,  even 
of  recent  date,  to  allege  that  a  general  dislike  of 
Americans  exists  in  the  Kingdom;  and  it  would  not 
be  very  strange  if  this  should  be  true,  considering 
the  manner  in  which  many  Americans  conduct 
themselves  while  abroad.  Our  own  experience  was 
that  such  an  idea  is  not  well  founded.  In  all  our 
wanderings  we  saw  no  evidence  whatever  of  such 
dislike.  In  England  everyone  knows  an  American 
at  sight  and  had  there  been  the  slightest  unfriendli- 

355 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

ness  towards  Americans  as  a  class,  it  would  cer- 
tainly have  been  apparent  to  us  during  such  a  tour 
as  our  own.  I  think  many  incidents  cited  in  this 
as  well  as  in  my  former  books  go  to  prove  that  the 
reverse  is  true,  but  these  incidents  are  only  a  frac- 
tion of  what  I  might  have  given.  That  a  certain 
uncongeniality,  due  to  a  difference  in  temperament 
and  lack  of  mutual  understanding,  exists  between 
the  average  American  and  the  average  Englishman, 
we  may  freely  admit,  but  it  would  be  wrong  to 
view  this  as  personal  dislike  of  each  other.  I  have 
no  doubt  that  even  this  barrier  will  disappear  in 
time,  just  as  the  dislike  and  jealousy  which  really 
did  exist  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago  have  disappeared. 
Who  could  now  conceive  of  the  situation  that  moved 
Nathaniel  Hawthorne  to  write  in  "Our  Old  Home" 
fifty  years  ago: 

"An  American  is  not  apt  to  love  the  English 
people,  on  whatever  length  of  acquaintance.  I 
fancy  they  would  value  our  regard  and  even  recip- 
rocate it  in  their  ungracious  way  if  we  could  give 
it  to  them,  in  spite  of  all  rebuffs;  but  they  are  beset 
by  a  curious  and  inevitable  infelicity  which  compels 
them,  as  it  were,  to  keep  up  what  they  consider  a 
wholesome  feeling  of  bitterness  between  themselves 
and  all  other  nations,  especially  Americans." 

Of  our  own  experience,  at  least,  we  may  speak 
856 


THE   ENGLISH  AND    THEIR   INSTITUTIONS 

with  authority.  As  a  result  of  our  several  sojourns 
in  Britain  and  extensive  journeyings  in  every  part 
of  the  Kingdom,  we  came  to  have  only  the  kindest 
regard  for  the  people  and  greater  appreciation  of 
their  apparent  good  will.  As  we  became  better  in- 
formed we  were  only  the  more  interested  in  the 
history  and  traditions  of  the  Motherland,  and  we 
almost  came  to  feel  something  of  the  pride  and  satis- 
faction that  must  fill  the  breast  of  the  patriotic 
Englishman  himself.  Nothing  will  serve  more  to 
impress  on  one  the  close  connection  between  the 
two  countries  than  the  common  literature  which 
one  finds  everywhere  in  both;  and  you  will  pass 
scarce  a  town  or  village  on  all  the  highways  and  by- 
ways of  the  Old  Country  that  has  not  its  namesake 
in  America. 

Our  impressions  as  to  the  fairness  and  honesty  of 
the  English  people  generally  were  most  favorable. 
First  of  all,  our  dealings  with  hotels  were  perhaps 
the  most  numerous  of  our  business  transactions. 
Never  to  my  recollection  did  we  inquire  in  advance 
the  price  of  accommodations,  and  I  recall  scarcely 
a  single  instance  where  we  had  reason  to  believe 
this  had  been  taken  advantage  of.  This  was  indeed 
in  striking  contrast  to  our  experience  with  innkeepers 
on  the  Continent.  For  an  American  in  possession 
of  a  motor  to  take  up  quarters  in  the  average  French 

357 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

or  German  hotel  without  close  bargaining  and  an 
exact  understanding  as  to  charges  would  soon  mean 
financial  ruin  to  the  tourist  of  moderate  means.  We 
could  give  almost  as  good  report  of  the  many  Eng- 
lish shopkeepers  with  whom  we  dealt — there  was 
no  evidence  of  any  attempt  to  overcharge  us  on 
account  of  being  tourists.  Nor  did  I  ever  have  a 
cab  or  carriage-driver  try  to  exact  more  than  was 
coming  to  him — though  of  course  a  small  extra  fee 
is  always  expected — certainly  a  contrast  with  New 
York  City,  for  instance,  where  it  is  always  hazard- 
ous to  get  into  a  cab  without  an  iron-clad  agree- 
ment with  the  driver.  Perhaps  the  credit  for  this 
state  of  affairs  may  be  due  not  so  much  to  the 
honesty  of  the  English  Jehus  as  to  a  public  senti- 
ment which  will  not  tolerate  robbery.  Nor  should 
I  fail  to  mention  that  in  twenty  thousand  miles  of 
touring  our  car  was  left  unguarded  hundreds  of 
times  with  much  movable  property  in  it,  and 
during  our  whole  journey  we  never  lost  the  value 
of  a  farthing  from  theft. 

It  is  no  new  thing  to  say  that  the  average  English- 
man is  insular — but  this  became  much  more  to  us 
than  mere  hearsay  before  we  left  the  country.  The 
vision  of  few  of  the  people  extends  beyond  the 
Island,  and  we  might  almost  say,  beyond  an  im- 
mediate neighborhood.  There  is  a  great  disinclina- 
358 


THE   ENGLISH  AND   THEIR  INSTITUTIONS 

tion  to  get  out  of  an  established  groove;  outside  of 
certain  classes  there  appears  to  be  little  ambition  to 
travel.  I  know  of  one  intelligent  young  man  of 
thirty  who  had  never  seen  salt  water — nowhere  in 
England  more  than  a  hundred  miles  distant.  I  was 
told  that  a  journey  from  a  country  town  in  Scotland 
or  North  England  to  London  is  an  event  in  a  life- 
time with  almost  any  one  of  the  natives.  The  world 
beyond  the  confines  of  England  is  vague  indeed; 
Germany,  the  universal  bugbear,  is  best  known  and 
cordially  hated,  but  of  America  only  the  haziest 
notions  prevail.  Not  one  in  a  thousand  has  any 
conception  of  our  distances  and  excepting  possibly 
a  dozen  cities,  one  town  in  America  is  quite  as  un- 
known as  another. 

Akin  to  this  insularity  is  the  lack  of  enterprise 
and  adaptability  everywhere  noticeable — a  clinging 
to  outworn  customs  and  methods.  Since  the  Eng- 
lish vision  does  not  extend  to  the  outer  world,  but 
little  seems  to  be  expected  or  even  desired  of  it. 
There  is  not  the  constant  desire  for  improvement, 
and  the  eager  seeking  after  some  way  to  do  things 
quicker  and  better — so  characteristic  of  America — 
is  usually  wanting.  An  American  manufacturer 
will  discard  even  new  machinery  if  something  more 
efficient  comes  out,  but  an  Englishman  only  thinks 
of  making  his  present  machine  last  to  the  very  limit 
359 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

of  endurance.  A  friend  told  me  of  a  relative  of  his 
who  boasted  that  in  his  mill  a  steam  engine  had  been 
running  fifty  years;  it  never  occurred  to  the  mill- 
owner  that  the  old  engine  almost  yearly  ate  up  the 
cost  of  a  new  one  on  account  of  inefficiency  and 
wasted  fuel. 

Often  in  garages  where  I  took  my  car  to  have 
it  cleaned  and  oiled,  I  could  not  help  noting  the  in- 
efficiency of  the  workmen.  At  times  I  had  the 
engine  crank  case  removed  and  cleaned  and  this 
one  little  thing  gave  a  painful  insight  into  the  methods 
of  the  English  workman.  Nothing  could  be  simpler 
than  removing  and  replacing  the  dust  shield  under 
the  engine — simply  snapping  six  spring  catches  out 
of  and  into  position.  Yet  I  have  seen  one  or  even 
two  men  crawl  around  under  the  car  for  a  half 
hour  or  more  in  performing  this  simple  operation. 
In  replacing  the  oil  reservoir  and  pump  I  found  that 
nothing  would  take  the  place  of  personal  supervis- 
ion— a  cotter  pin,  gasket  or  what  not  would  surely 
be  left  out  to  give  further  trouble.  Repairing  an 
American  car  in  a  provincial  town  would  be  a  seri- 
ous job  unless  the  owner  or  his  driver  were  able  to 
oversee  and  direct  the  work. 

As  I  have  stated,  we  left  England  with  decidedly 
favorable  impressions  of  the  country  and  people;  so 
much  so  that  I  doubt  not  many  of  our  fellow-coun- 

360 


THE  ENGLISH  AND   THEIR   INSTITUTIONS 

m 

trymen  would  think  us  unduly  prejudiced.  But  all 
this  did  not  blind  us  to  the  fact  that  England  in 
many  regards  is  in  a  distinctly  bad  way  and  that 
a  thorough  awakening  must  come  if  she  is  to  avoid 
sure  decadence.  Indeed,  there  are  many,  chief 
among  them  distinguished  Englishmen  and  colonials, 
who  aver  that  such  decadence  has  already  begun, 
but  there  is  much  difference  of  opinion  as  to  its 
cause  and  as  to  what  may  best  check  its  progress. 

If  I  were  to  give  my  own  humble  opinion  as  to 
the  chief  disadvantage  from  which  the  country  suf- 
fers and  the  most  depressing  influence  on  national 
character,  I  should  place  feudalism  first  of  all  and 
by  this  I  mean  the  system  of  inherited  titles,  offices 
and  entailed  estates.  I  know  that  the  government  of 
the  Kingdom  is  regarded  as  one  of  great  efficiency 
and  stability,  and  I  think  justly  so ;  and  this  is  often 
urged  by  apologists  for  the  feudal  system.  But  the 
Englishman  is  slow  to  learn  that  just  as  stable  and 
quite  as  efficient  government  may  be  had  without 
the  handicap  of  outworn  medievalism.  That  the 
present  system  seems  to  work  well  in  England  is 
not  due  to  any  inherent  merit  it  may  possess,  but  to 
the  homogeneity  of  the  nation,  and  to  a  universal 
spirit  of  law-abiding  that  would  insure  success  for 
almost  any  respectable  type  of  government.  It  does 

not  work  well  in  Ireland  and  never  has;  and  it  has 

361 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

substantially  been  abandoned  in  the  self-governing 
colonies. 

It  seems  to  me,  however,  that  the  question  as  to 
how  the  feudal  system  works  in  government  is  of 
little  consequence  as  compared  with  its  ultimate 
effect  on  national  character  under  modern  condi- 
tions; for  it  is  all  out  of  accord  with  the  spirit  of 
modern  progress,  and  if  it  ever  served  a  useful  pur- 
pose, it  has  well  outlived  it.  One  may  justly  claim 
that  the  king  and  the  nobility  have  really  little  to 
do  with  governing,  especially  since  the  abolition  of 
the  veto  of  the  House  of  Lords;  that  the  will  of 
the  people  finds  expression  in  England  quite  as 
strongly  as  anywhere;  but  even  if  we  admit  this, 
I  cannot  see  that  it  offers  any  argument  in  favor  of 
feudalism.  No  one  can  make  a  tour  of  England 
such  as  ours  and  not  observe  the  spirit  of  servility 
among  the  common  people  due  to  the  inbred  rever- 
ence for  a  title.  Indeed,  there  is  no  feeling  in  Eng- 
land that  all  men  are  born  free  and  equal,  or  that 
one  man  is  quite  as  good  as  another  so  long  as  he 
behaves  himself.  A  mere  title,  Sir,  Duke,  Earl, 
Lord  or  what-not,  creates  at  once  a  different  order 
of  being  and  the  toadyism  to  such  titular  distinctions 
is  plainly  noticeable  everywhere.  An  earl  or  a  duke 
is  at  our  hotel;  he  may  be  a  bankrupt,  inconse- 
quential fellow,  it  is  true;  he  may  not  have  a  single 

362 


THE  ENGLISH  AND   THEIR  INSTITUTIONS 

personal  trait  to  command  respect  and  he  may  not 
be  engaged  in  any  useful  industry.  But  there  is 
much  salaaming  and  everyone  about  the  place  as- 
sumes an  awe-stricken,  menial  attitude,  merely  be- 
cause the  gentleman  has  the  prefix  Earl  or  Duke 
— there  can  be  no  other  reason.  Is  it  strange  that 
such  a  spirit  causes  the  common  people  to  lose  self- 
reliance  and  yield  up  their  ambition  to  be  anything 
more  than  their  fathers  before  them?  A  propor- 
tion of  the  nobility  may  be  composed  of  men  of 
character  and  ability,  fitted  to  occupy  positions  of 
authority  and  public  responsibility  and  the  present 
king  may  be  all  that  a  king  should  be;  but  the  sys- 
tem is  wrong  and  its  effect  on  English  character  can 
hardly  fail  to  have  an  untoward  influence  on  the 
nation. 

I  find  this  view  borne  out  in  a  guarded  way  in 
a  book  recently  published  by  a  prominent  colonial 
official  who  spent  some  time  in  England.  He  insists 
that  the  lack  of  patriotism,  which  one  can  hardly 
fail  to  observe,  is  due  to  the  present  social  system. 
He  declares  that  the  common  people  take  little  in- 
terest in  national  affairs  and  make  no  study  of  prob- 
lems confronting  the  government.  They  expect  the 
so-called  "upper  classes"  to  do  the  governing  for 
them;  there  is  no  need  to  concern  themselves  over 

363 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

matters  that  must  be  settled  by  a  House  of  Lords 
in  whose  choosing  they  can  have  no  voice. 

The  recruits  to  the  nobility  now  come  almost 
exclusively  from  the  wealthy  class;  we  often  have 
flung  in  our  faces  in  England  the  taunt  that  there 
is  an  aristocracy  of  wealth  in  America,  and  that  the 
pursuit  of  the  Almighty  Dollar  is  the  all-prevailing 
passion.  It  may  be  just,  in  the  same  general  way 
that  I  intend  these  remarks  to  apply  to  England,  but 
we  can  at  least  retort  that  our  oil,  beef,  mining  and 
railway  magnates  cannot  purchase  a  title  and  found 
a  "family,"  thus  becoming  in  the  public  eye  a  su- 
perior class  of  beings  and  established  as  our  hered- 
itary rulers.  A  wealthy  brewer  may  not  become 
"my  lord"  for  a  consideration,  in  any  event. 

A  recent  American  writer  makes  the  curious  apol- 
ogy for  the  House  of  Lords  as  a  legislative  body 
that  it  affords  the  English  people  the  services  of  the 
most  successful  moneyed  men  in  framing  laws  and 
that  the  sons  of  such  men  are  pretty  sure  to  be 
practical,  well-trained  fellows  themselves.  He  also 
argues  that  the  families  usually  die  out  in  a  few 
generations,  thus  introducing  new  blood  continually 
and  forming,  in  his  estimation,  a  most  capable  legis- 
lative body.  The  preposterous  nature  of  such 
statements  can  best  be  shown  by  trying  to  apply 
such  a  system  to  the  United  States  Senate.  If  our 
364 


THE  ENGLISH  AND   THEIR  INSTITUTIONS 

senators,  for  instance,  were  hereditary  lords,  re- 
cruited from  the  oil,  beef,  brewing,  mining  or  rail- 
way magnates  aforementioned,  what  might  the 
American  people  expect  from  them?  We  complain 
vigorously  if  any  senator  is  shown  to  be  influenced 
by  such  interests  and  more  than  one  legislator  has 
found  out  to  his  grief  that  such  a  connection  will 
not  be  tolerated.  Suppose  we  had  a  system  that 
put  the  principals  themselves  in  a  permanent  legis- 
lative body  and  invested  them  with  all  the  glamour 
of  "his  grace"  or  "my  lord?"  Quite  unthinkable 
— and  yet  such  is  the  system  in  Britain. 

And  these  self-sacrificing  hereditary  legislators  are 
no  fonder  of  bearing  the  real  burdens  of  the  coun- 
try than  our  own  plutocrats  are.  There  is  much 
complaint  in  England  that  in  the  ranks  of  the  nobil- 
ity are  to  be  found  the  most  flagrant  tax  dodgers 
in  the  Kingdom.  Nor  does  this  complaint  lack  for 
vigorous  utterance — a  most  hopeful  sign  of  the 
times,  to  my  notion.  But  recently  a  London  paper 
exploited  the  case  of  the  Marquis  of  Bute,  owner  of 
Cardiff  Castle — and  most  of  Cardiff,  for  that  matter 
— who  returned  his  personal  tax  at  less  than  a  thou- 
sand pounds,  and  that  included  Cardiff  Castle  and 
grounds,  which  represent  literally  millions!  Yet  no 
man  in  the  Kingdom  is  better  able  to  afford  pay- 
ment of  his  just  tax  than  this  nobleman.  To  show 

365 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

the  gross  injustice  of  his  tax,  a  comparison  was  made 
of  the  castle  with  a  humble  tailor  shop  in  Cardiff, 
ninety  by  one  hundred  and  twenty  feet,  which  was 
taxed  at  a  higher  figure!  The  newspaper  in  ques- 
tion also  declared  that  this  case  was  typical  of  tax- 
dodging  lords  all  over  the  country. 

That  there  is  a  strong  under-current  against  the 
feudal  system  cannot  be  doubted;  we  found  it 
everywhere,  though  at  times  but  half  expressed  and 
again  only  to  be  inferred,  but  it  exists  none  the  less. 
Indeed,  more  recent  developments  have  shown  the 
extent  of  such  sentiment  in  the  overthrow  of  the 
veto  power  of  the  Lords.  This  is  a  great  step  in 
advance,  though  England  would  be  infinitely  the 
gainer  if  the  feudal  system  were  abolished  and  not 
merely  modified.  This  antagonism  does  not  ex- 
tend to  royalty — that  institution  escapes  through  the 
popularity  of  the  present  king  and  queen.  But  the 
time  may  come  when  a  weak  and  unpopular  king 
will  turn  public  sentiment  against  the  very  keystone 
of  feudalism  and  the  whole  structure  is  likely  to 
fall.  When  one  recollects  the  furore  that  prevailed 
in  England  when  the  former  king  as  Prince  of  Wales 
was  mixed  up  with  the  Baccarat  scandals,  it  is  easy 
to  see  how  much  royalty  owes  its  existence  to  good 
behavior.  At  that  time  doubt  was  freely  expressed 
as  to  whether  the  prince  would  ever  be  king  of  Eng- 

366 


THE   ENGLISH  AND    THEIR   INSTITUTIONS 

land,  but  he  lived  it  all  down  by  his  subsequent 
good  record.  I  had  many  intelligent  men  admit 
that  "your  system  of  government  is  right;  we  shall 
come  to  it  some  time,"  or  words  to  that  effect,  and 
we  heard  many  ill-concealed  flings  at  the  nobility. 
"We  are  all  the  property  of  the  nobility,"  said  one 
intelligent  young  shopman  of  whom  in  the  course 
of  conversation  we  inquired  if  he  owned  his  home. 
"No  one  has  any  chance  to  own  anything  or  be 
anything  in  England."  And  in  a  prayer-book  at 
Stratford  Church  we  found  the  petition  "for  the 
nobility"  erased  with  heavy  pencil  lines. 

I  give  these  as  typical  of  many  similar  instances, 
but  I  have  no  space  in  this  book  for  discussion  of 
the  impressions  I  record.  A  volume  would  be  re- 
quired should  I  attempt  this.  I  can  only  set  down 
these  random  notes  without  elaborate  argument. 
And  yet,  what  could  be  more  convincing  that  the 
social  system  of  England  is  wrong  than  the  hope- 
lessness we  found  everywhere  and  the  refrain  that 
we  heard  oftener  than  any  other,  "A  common  man 
has  no  chance  in  England?"  If  he  is  not  fortunate 
or  a  genius,  there  is  nothing  for  him.  He  must 
either  succumb  to  inevitable  mediocrity  and  poverty 
or  get  away  to  some  new  country  to  gain  the  oppor- 
tunity of  competence  and  social  promotion  in  any 
degree. 

367 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

It  is  to  the  feudal  system  that  can  be  charged 
the  astonishing  state  of  affairs  in  England  that  makes 
a  gentleman  of  a  person  with  no  occupation — -a 
loafer,  we  would  style  him  in  America — and  so- 
cially degrades  the  useful  citizen  engaged  in  trade. 
On  this  particular  phase  I  will  not  pass  my  own 
comment,  but  quote  from  a  book,  **Wake  Up, 
England,"  by  P.  A.  Vaile,  Premier  of  New  Zea- 
land, lately  issued  by  a  London  publisher: 

"There  is  perhaps  nothing  in  English  life  so  dis- 
gusting to  a  man  who  has  not  the  scales  upon  his 
eyes  as  the  loathsome  snobbery  of  those  who  pro- 
fess to  despise  a  man  because  his  income  is  derived 
from  a  trade  or  business.  It  is  wholly  inexcusable 
and  contemptible.  Trade,  instead  of  being  consid- 
ered honourable  and  dignified,  is,  in  the  eyes  of 
every  snob,  a  degradation.  Unfortunately,  snobs  in 
England  are  not  scarce. 

"The  tradesman  is  himself  in  a  great  measure 
to  blame  for  this,  for  he  accepts  humbly  as  his  due 
the  contempt  that  is  meted  out  to  him.  Most  of 
those  who  so  freely  despise  the  poor  necessary  man 
of  trade,  have  a  portion  of  their  savings,  when  they 
are  lucky  enough  to  have  any,  invested  in  some  large 
millinery  or  pork-butcher's  business  that  has  been 
floated  into  a  limited  liability  company — yet  to  them 

368 


THE  ENGLISH  AND   THEIR  INSTITUTIONS 

the  man  who  earns  their  dividends  is  absolutely 
outside  the  pale. 

"If  there  is  any  nation  that  I  know  that  is  hope- 
lessly bourgeois,  it  is  England.  Why  can  we  not 
be  manly  enough  to  recognize  the  fact,  to  acknowl- 
edge and  freely  admit  to  ourselves  that  we  are  a 
nation  of  very  commonplace  individuals,  mostly 
shopkeepers,  that  it  is  the  shopkeepers  who  have 
made  the  nation  what  she  is,  and  that  commerce  is 
an  occupation  worthy  of  any  gentleman  instead  of 
being  a  calling  which  merits  the  contempt  of  the 
idle,  the  rich  and  the  foolish?" 

If  such  a  condition  prevails  in  England,  it  can 
surely  be  chargeable  to  nothing  else  than  a  system 
which  places  the  stamp  of  superiority  on  the  idler 
and  puts  him  in  a  position  where  he  can  assume  a 
patronizing  air  towards  those  who  are  the  back- 
bone and  mainstay  of  the  nation. 

Hand  in  hand  with  outworn  feudalism  goes  the 
established  church,  of  which  it  is  really  a  part  and 
parcel.  A  state  religion  of  which  a  none  too  re- 
ligious king  may  be  the  head,  and  whose  control 
may  fall  into  the  hands  of  politicians  who  are  fre- 
quently without  the  first  qualification  of  churchmen, 
is  an  incongruity  at  best.  If  America  has  proven 
anything,  she  has  demonstrated  that  absolute  separa- 
tion is  best  for  both  church  and  state;  that  true 

369 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

religious  freedom  and  amity  can  best  be  conserved 
by  it.  But  in  England  the  established  church  is  a 
constant  bone  of  contention;  its  supercilious,  holier- 
than-thou  attitude  toward  the  other  churches  is  the 
cause  of  much  heart-burning  and  friction.  It  has 
the  sanction  of  the  state,  the  social  rank,  the  great 
church  buildings  and  the  traditions,  and  forces  other 
Christian  denominations  into  the  attitude  of  the 
poor  and  rather  shabby  relation  of  a  wealthy  aristo- 
crat— the  wealth  in  this  case  not  measured  merely 
in  money.  Class  distinction,  the  curse  of  England 
everywhere,  is  only  fomented  by  the  attitude  of  the 
established  church.  In  religious  matters  it  is  not 
human  nature  to  concede  to  anyone  else  superiority, 
and  not  until  the  Church  of  England  places  itself 
on  common  ground  with  its  contemporaries,  will 
true  fraternity  among  the  different  denominations  be 
possible  in  England  as  it  is  rapidly  becoming  in 
America.  I  remember  a  kindly  old  gentleman  who 
showed  us  much  courtesy  in  the  English  Boston  in 
pointing  out  to  us  the  places  of  interest,  but  who 
did  not  fall  in  with  our  enthusiasm  over  the  great 
church. 

"Ah,  yes,"  he  said.  "It  once  belonged  to  Rome, 
who  grew  arrogant  and  oppressive — and  fell;  it 
now  belongs  to  a  church  that  is  just  as  arrogant  and 
would  be  as  much  of  an  oppressor  if  she  dared — 

370 


THE   ENGLISH  AND   THEIR  INSTITUTIONS 

and  her  downfall  is  just  as  sure."  And  the  enthus- 
iasm with  which  he  pointed  out  the  plain  Wesleyan 
chapel  betrayed  his  own  predilections. 

That  the  educational  system  of  England  is  faulty 
and  inefficient  we  have  the  testimony  of  many  lead- 
ing English  educators  themselves.  The  constant 
interference  of  the  Church  of  England  and  the 
Catholics  with  the  public  schools  is  greatly  respon- 
sible for  the  chaos  of  the  educational  situation  of  the 
country.  Conditions  in  England  are  such  that  a 
most  excellent  public  school  system  might  easily  be 
maintained.  The  density  of  population  and  the 
perfect  roads  would  make  every  rural  school  easily 
accessible,  and  there  would  be  distinct  advantages 
not  enjoyed  by  many  American  communities  which 
have  far  better  schools.  But  church  jealousy,  hide- 
bound tradition,  and  the  almost  universal  inefficiency 
of  English  school-teachers,  are  obstacles  hard  to 
overcome.  I  cannot  discuss  so  great  a  question  in 
the  limits  of  a  short  chapter,  but  the  testimony  of 
the  most  representative  English  educators  may  be 
found  in  the  report  of  the  commission  which  visited 
American  schools  under  the  guidance  of  Mr.  Alfred 
Mosely. 

That  England,  generally  speaking,  is  better  and 
more  efficiently  governed  than  the  United  States  is 
no  proof  that  its  system  is  as  good  as  our  own,  or 

371 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

that  its  possibilities  equal  ours.  It  is  rather  due  to 
the  homogeneity  of  the  masses  and  to  a  more  pre- 
valent respect  for  law  and  authority  among  the  peo- 
ple. Justice  is  surer  and  swifter  when  the  criminal's 
offense  is  once  proven  in  the  courts;  but  the  many 
technicalities  and  the  positive  nature  of  proof  re- 
quired enables  a  large  number  of  swindlers  and  ras- 
cals to  keep  at  large.  Dead-beats  will  evade  debts, 
irresponsible  tenants  refuse  payment  of  rents  for  in- 
definite periods,  and  petty  swindlers  go  quite  free 
— all  of  whom  would  be  given  short  shrift  in 
America — simply  because  it  is  a  dangerous  matter 
to  risk  infringing  the  "rights  of  the  subject"  and 
thus  lay  oneself  liable  to  heavy  damages  should 
charges  fail  of  proof. 

The  excellence  of  the  British  police  system  is  pro- 
verbial; in  efficiency  and  honesty  of  administration 
it  has  no  parallel  in  America.  Bribery  and  corrup- 
tion among  policemen  are  unknown,  as  Americans 
sometimes  learn  to  their  grief — illustrated  by  the 
instance  of  a  rich  New  Yorker  who  offered  a  gold 
coin  to  an  officer  who  had  held  up  his  motor  for 
speeding.  The  offender  was  fined,  not  only  for 
speeding,  but  much  more  heavily  for  attempted 
bribery — as  it  was  justly  regarded  by  the  court. 
From  the  hundreds  of  policemen  of  whom  we  made 
inquiries — often  very  stupid,  no  doubt,  to  the  offi- 

372 


THE   ENGLISH  AND   THEIR  INSTITUTIONS 

cer — we  never  had  an  answer  with  the  slightest 
trace  of  ill  nature  or  impatience.  Frequently  the 
officer  gave  us  much  assistance  in  a  friendly  way  and 
information  as  to  places  of  interest.  The  British 
policeman  has  no  swagger  or  ostentation  about  him; 
he  carries  no  weapon — not  even  the  club  so  indis- 
pensible  in  the  States — yet  he  will  control  the  riot- 
ous crowds  more  effectively  than  his  American 
brother;  but  we  should  remember  that  even  a  riot- 
ous English  mob  has  more  respect  for  law  than  one 
on  our  side.  He  appears  to  appreciate  thoroughly 
the  value  of  his  position  to  him  personally  and  his 
dignity  as  a  conserver  of  law  and  order,  which  he 
represents  rather  than  some  ward  politician  or 
saloon-keeper. 

And,  speaking  of  saloons — public  houses,  they 
call  them  in  Britain — the  drink  evil  averages  worse 
than  in  the  United  States.  Three  quarters  of  a 
billion  dollars  go  directly  every  year  for  spirituous 
liquors  and  no  statistics  could  show  the  indirect  cost 
in  pauperism,  suffering  and  crime,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  deleterious  effect  on  the  health  of  a  large  portion 
of  the  people.  In  America  liquor  in  the  country 
hotel  is  an  exception,  constantly  becoming  rarer;  in 
England  it  is  the  universal  rule.  Every  hotel  is  quite 
as  much  a  saloon,  in  our  vernacular,  as  a  house  of 
entertainment  for  travelers.  Women  with  children 

373 


ODD  CORNERS  (OF  BRITAIN 

in  their  arms  frequent  the  low-grade  drink  houses 
and  women  as  bar-maids  serve  the  liquors.  More 
than  once  I  had  to  exercise  great  caution  on  account 
of  reeling  drunken  men  on  the  streets  of  the  smaller 
towns;  but  we  had  only  hearsay  for  it  that  in  the 
slums  of  Liverpool  and  London  one  may  find  hun- 
dreds of  women  dead  drunk.  There  was  much  in- 
dignation over  an  insinuation  made  in  parliament 
against  the  character  of  the  bar-maids,  but  it  is  hard 
to  see  how  many  of  these  women,  surrounded  by 
the  influences  forced  upon  them  by  their  vocation, 
can  lead  a  decent  life  for  any  length  of  time. 

Surely  the  drink  evil  in  Great  Britain  and  Ireland 
is  a  serious  one  and  deserves  far  more  active  meas- 
ures than  are  being  taken  against  it.  That  sentiment 
is  slowly  awakening  is  shown  by  the  fight  made  for 
the  "licensing  bill"  which  proposed  a  step,  though 
a  distant  one,  towards  repression  of  the  traffic.  That 
the  almost  world-wide  movement  against  the  liquor 
business  will  make  headway  in  England  is  reasonably 
certain  and  those  who  have  her  welfare  at  heart  will 
earnestly  hope  that  its  progress  may  be  rapid. 

But  in  this  connection  I  wish  to  emphasize  that 
my  observations  on  the  liquor  question  in  Britain 
are  broadly  general;  there  are  millions  of  people  in 
the  Kingdom  to  whom  they  do  not  apply,  and  there 
are  whole  sections  which  should  be  excepted  had  I 

374 


THE   ENGLISH  AND   THEIR  INSTITUTIONS 

space  to  particularize.  North  Wales,  for  instance, 
has  a  population  that  for  sobriety  and  general  free- 
dom from  the  evils  of  drink  will  rival  any  section  of 
similar  population  anywhere.  The  mining  towns 
of  Southern  Wales,  however,  are  quite  the  reverse 
in  this  particular. 

While  Wales  is  a  loyal  and  patriotic  part  of  the 
British  Empire,  there  are  many  ways  in  which  the 
people  are  quite  distinct  and  peculiar  as  compared 
with  native  Englishmen.  Perhaps  the  most  notable 
point  of  difference  is  consistent  opposition  to  the 
established  church,  which  has  little  support  in 
Wales  and  has  been  practically  forced  upon  the 
Welsh  people  by  the  British  government.  Only 
recently  a  measure  for  disestablishment  has  been 
entertained  in  parliament  and  it  is  sure  to  come 
sooner  or  later. 

For  the  people  of  Northern  Wales  we  came  to 
have  the  highest  respect  and  even  regard.  They 
were  universally  kind  and  courteous  and  their  solici- 
tude for  the  stranger  within  their  gates  seemed  to 
be  more  than  a  mere  desire  to  get  his  money.  There 
is  no  place  in  the  Kingdom  where  one  may  find 
good  accommodations  cheaper,  barring  a  half  dozen 
notable  resorts  in  the  height  of  the  season.  Added 
to  this,  the  beauty  of  the  country  and  its  romantic 
and  historic  interest  make  a  combination  of  at- 

375 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

tractions  that  would  long  detain  one  whose  time 
permitted. 

The  foregoing  observations  about  the  Welsh  are 
applicable  in  a  greater  or  less  degree  to  many  sec- 
tions of  England  and  to  most  of  rural  Scotland,  save 
that  in  the  latter  country  hotel  expenses  will  average 
higher. 

A  word  on  hotels  generally  may  not  come  amiss 
from  one  whose  experience  has  dealt  with  several 
hundreds  of  them  of  all  classes  and  degrees,  from 
the  country  inn  to  the  pretentious  resort  hotel.  It 
was  our  practice  to  seek  out  the  best  in  every  case, 
since  we  hardly  enjoyed  hotel  life  even  under  the 
most  favorable  conditions;  but  it  was  largely  saved 
from  monotony  by  the  traditions  which  have  gath- 
ered about  almost  every  ancient  inn  in  the  Kingdom. 
One  would  miss  much  if  he  did  not  visit  the  old 
inns  such  as  the  Feathers  in  Ludlow,  the  Lygon 
Arms  in  Broadway,  the  Great  White  Horse  in 
Ipswich,  the  King's  Head  in  Coventry — but  I  could 
fill  pages  with  names  alone;  I  would  as  soon  think 
of  missing  a  historic  castle  or  a  cathedral  as  some 
of  the  inns.  It  is  this  sentiment  that  has  led  me  to 
give  the  rather  extended  individual  mention  ac- 
corded in  some  cases. 

As  a  whole,  the  British  hotels  are  comfortable 
and  well  conducted.  Outside  of  London  one  will 

376 


THE   ENGLISH  AND   THEIR  INSTITUTIONS 

find  the  menus  rather  restricted  and  usually  quite 
heavy  and  substantial  from  an  American  point  of 
view.  Special  dishes  are  not  easily  obtained  in  the 
country  inns  and  request  for  them  is  not  at  all  en- 
thusiastically received.  Eggs  and  bacon — with  the 
latter  very  nearly  answering  the  specification  of  ham 
in  America — with  fish,  usually  sole  or  plaice,  and 
tea  or  rather  bad  coffee,  is  the  standard  breakfast. 
Fruit  cannot  usually  be  had  even  in  season  without 
prearrangement  the  evening  before,  and  then  only 
at  exorbitant  prices.  Strawberries,  for  instance — 
there  are  none  finer  than  the  English  in  season — 
may  be  selling  for  sixpence  a  quart,  but  you  will  pay 
half  a  crown  extra  for  a  lesser  quantity  served  with 
your  breakfast.  An  assortment  of  cold  meats, 
usually  displayed  on  the  sideboard,  forms  the  basis 
for  luncheon  and  the  very  wise  native  will  go  to 
the  sideboard  and  select  his  own  portions.  There 
will  sometimes  be  a  hot  dish  of  meat;  cabbage  and 
potatoes  are  the  standard  vegetables,  the  latter 
cooked  without  seasoning  and  generally  poor.  A 
lettuce  salad  and  cheese,  with  stewed  fruit  or  a 
tart,  as  they  style  a  pastry  something  similar  to  an 
American  pie,  will  complete  the  meal — at  least  for 
one  who  does  not  care  for  liquid  refreshments,  which 
may  be  had  in  great  variety.  Dinner  in  the  smaller 
inns  is  usually  served  on  the  table  d'hote  plan.  A 

377 


ODD  CORNERS  OP  BRITAIN 

very  poor  soup,  a  bit  of  stale  fish — inexcusable  in  a 
country  surrounded  by  the  sea;  an  entree,  usually 
a  highly  seasoned  hotch-potch,  or  chicken  and  bacon 
— often  a  vile  combination — followed  by  some 
heavy,  indigestible  "sweet,"  made  the  standard 
evening  meal.  We  finally  rebelled  against  this  and 
had  many  a  lively  tilt  with  the  manageress  in  our 
efforts  to  get  a  plain  meal  of  eggs,  tea,  bread  and 
butter  and  perhaps  a  chop.  In  some  of  the  resort 
hotels  our  demands  caused  positive  consternation  and 
in  more  than  one  case  had  to  be  taken  up  with  the 
proprietor  himself.  The  difficulty  was  chiefly  due 
to  the  disarrangement  of  the  regime;  the  table  d' 
hote  meal  was  ready,  though  often  stale  and  cold, 
and  one  waiter  by  following  the  fixed  routine  could 
serve  a  dozen  people,  while  our  simple  wants  usually 
disarranged  the  whole  program,  both  in  kitchen  and 
dining  room.  It  was  rare  indeed  that  a  mutton 
chop  could  be  had  in  the  hotel;  some  one  must  be 
sent  to  the  meat  shop  for  it,  and  any  such  departure 
from  the  fixed  order  of  things  jarred  the  nerves  of 
the  whole  establishment.  It  is  only  fair  to  state, 
however,  that  at  some  of  the  fine  inns  I  have  especi- 
ally mentioned  there  were  notable  exceptions  to 
these  generalizations. 

The  rooms  in  the  country  hotel  do  not  average 
very  comfortable;  the  furniture  is  scant;   they  are 

378 


THE   ENGLISH  AND    THEIR   INSTITUTIONS 

poorly  lighted — if  not  with  candles,  a  single  dim 
electric  bulb  or  gas  light  serves  the  purpose;  feather 
beds,  with  the  odors  that  these  give  out  in  a  damp 
climate,  were  not  uncommon,  though  flat  rebellion 
against  them  would  often  bring  out  the  fact  that 
there  were  others  in  the  house.  Bathing  facilities 
were  usually  poor,  a  dirty  bathroom  or  two  serving 
the  entire  house.  Not  in  a  single  case  did  we  find 
running  water  in  the  rooms.  But  with  all  its  draw- 
backs, the  British  provincial  hotel  will  probably 
average  as  good  as  may  be  found  in  any  country, 
and  in  motoring  one  has  the  option  of  going  on  to 
the  next  town  if  conditions  seem  too  bad  to  be  en- 
dured. Rates — to  tourists — in  the  better  class  ho- 
tels are  not  low;  yet  I  would  not  call  them  exorbitant 
as  a  rule.  Two  shillings  for  breakfast,  three  for 
luncheon  and  four  to  six  for  dinner  may  be  given 
as  the  average,  while  the  charge  for  rooms  can  hardly 
be  generalized.  Five  or  six  dollars  per  day  per 
person  should  cover  the  hotel  expense,  including 
tips. 

And,  speaking  of  tips,  these  aggregate  no  incon- 
siderable item;  a  smaller  individual  amount  will  give 
satisfaction  than  in  America,  but  the  number  of 
beneficiaries  is  so  much  greater  that  the  total  cost 
is  more.  Every  servant  who  does  anything  for  you 
or  who  ought  to  do  anything,  must  have  a  fee — 

379 


ODD  CORNERS  OF  BRITAIN 

porter,  boots,  chambermaid,  waiter,  head  waiter, 
stable  man,  garage  attendant,  the  man  who  cleans 
your  car  or  brings  you  oil  or  petrol;  in  fact,  every- 
one in  the  hotel  except  the  proprietor  or  manageress 
expects  from  sixpence  to  half  a  crown  for  the  day, 
as  the  case  may  be,  and  it  does  not  pay  to  withhold 
it.  One  subjected  to  such  exactions  cannot  but  view 
with  great  concern  the  increase  of  the  practice  of 
tipping  in  America;  should  it  ever  become  so  prev- 
alent here  at  the  much  higher  rate  that  the  Ameri- 
can servant  requires,  traveling  would  be  prohibitive 
except  for  millionaires. 


380 


INDEX 


Abbeville,    7-8,    133. 
Abbotsford,    173-177. 
Aberdeen,    188-190. 
Achaius,   King,    217. 
Ailsa  Craig,   239. 
Alfred,    King,    348-349. 
Alloway,    231-236,    250. 
Alsace,  59-60. 
Amboise,   32,   33,   35-36. 
Amiens,   129-133. 
Andover,  299. 
Angel  Inn,  Grantham,   149- 

150. 

Angers,    27-28. 
Austen,  Jane,  308. 
An  tun,   52-53. 
Avranches,  20-21. 
Awe,  Loch,   225. 
Ayr,   230-231. 

B 

Baliol,  John,  243-245. 
Ballachulish,    217-221,    223. 
Ballantrae,    240. 
Ballater,   188. 
Balmoral    Castle,    187-188. 
Barnes,  William,  302-303. 
Barnstaple,    348. 
Barrhead,    230. 


Bartholdi,  Frederic,   60. 
Basin gstoke,    299. 
Bassenthwaite  Water,    246, 

248-249. 
Bath,   350-351. 
Bayerischer-Hof,    Pussen, 

66-67. 

Bayeux,   16-17. 
Beaugency,   40-41. 
Beethoven,   Ludwig,    97. 
Bender  loch   Station,    221, 

223. 

Bennane  Head,   240. 
Ben  Nevis,   216,   217,   223. 
Bierck-sur-Mer,    6-7. 
Berry  Pomeroy  Castle,  311- 

319. 

Bettyhill,    204^205. 
Beauly,   209. 
Bideford,   347-348. 
Bingen,  89-91. 
Bishop  Auckland,    153-154. 
Blairgowrie,    185. 
Blandford,    300. 
Blois,    32,    36-40. 
Bonar  Bridge,  194,  208. 
Bonn,  97. 
Bonseoours,    13-14. 
Bootle,   252,   257. 
Boppard,  93. 


381 


INDEX 


Bornhofen,   93. 
Boroughbridge,    147. 
Boulogne,    4-6,      133,      134 

135. 

Bowness,    259. 
Braemar,    182,    186-187. 
Bridport,    308. 
Broughton,   252,   257-258. 
Burns,   Robert,     181, 

237. 

Burntisland,   182. 
Byrness,    156. 
Byron,   Lord,    96,    188. 


Caedmon,    162,   164,   168. 
Caen,   15-16. 
Caithness,    192193. 
Calder  Abbey,  253-254. 
Caledonian   Canal,    210-212. 
Camelford,   346-347. 
Carlisle,    246. 
Carlton   Hotel,   Frankfort, 

86. 

Casino,  The,  Boulogne,  135. 
Castle   Douglas,    241,    242. 
Castle  Hotel,   Conway,   278, 

280-281. 
Catcleugh,  156. 
Catherine  de  Medici,  34,  35- 

36,    38. 
Catherine  of  Beraine,  Lady, 

274. 

Cawdor  Castle,   213. 
Charles    I.,     149,     267-268, 

270,    295-296. 


Charles     Edward,     Prince, 
152,    178-179,    212,     221- 


Chateaubriant,   26. 
Chaumont,    32. 
Chenonceaux,    32-34. 
Chester,   262-263. 
Chinon,   32,   52. 
230-|  Coblenz,    89»    94-96. 
Cockermouth*    248-251. 
Colmar,  60. 
Cologne,   96-99,   125. 
Constance,   Lake,    62-64. 
Continental    Hotel,    Munich, 

77,   80-81. 

Conway,  263-264,  278-297. 
Cook,  Capt.,  160,  170-171. 
Cook  &  Sons,  Thos.,  69-70, 

210. 

Corbridge,    147,   155. 
Cosne,  46. 
Coutances,    20. 
Crinan  Canal,  227. 
Cromarty  Firth,  194. 
Cromwell,    Oliver,    306. 
Culloden    Moor,    212,      213, 

217,    222. 

Culzean  Castle,   237. 
Cupar,   184. 

D 

Dalton,    259. 
Darlington,    153. 
Darmstadt,   84. 
Darnick,    177-178. 
Deganwy,    287. 
Denbigh,    264-278. 
Derwentwater,    247,    248. 


INDEX 


Deutsches   Haus,    Friedrich-i 

sliafen,    63-64. 
Devorgilla,    Countess,    243- 

245. 

Diane  of  Poitiers,  33-34. 
Dickens,    Charles,    301. 
Dijon,    48-53. 
Dtngwall,    194. 
Dobson,      H.      J.,      235-236 

282. 

Donaueschingen,  61. 
Doncaster,  147,  151. 
Dorchester,  299,  300-307 

350. 

Dornoch  Firth,   194-195. 
Drachenfels,   96. 
Duarte,   225. 
Dudley,      Robert,      269-270 

277. 

Dumfries,   241,   242,   245. 
Dunderawe   Castle,    228. 
Dunolly,    224,    225. 
Dunrobin    Castle,    195,    197 
Dunure  Castle,   237. 
Dunstaffnage,    225. 


Edinburgh,    178-182. 
Edward  I.,   269,   277,   293. 
Edward    IV.,    330,    332. 
Edward   VII.,    186,    301. 
Egremont  Castle,   252-253. 
Ehrenbreitstein,    95-96. 
Ehrenfels,    91. 
Elizabeth,  Queen,   251,  269 

283. 

Elreton,  Henry  de,   293. 
Endicott,   John,    302. 


English  Channel,   2,  4,   133, 

135. 

E&comb,    154. 
Eyre-Todd,      George,       211, 

232. 
Exeter,  308,   309. 


Falkenburg   Castle,    92. 
Feochan,    Loch,    225-226. 
Folkestone,   3,   135. 
Fort  Augustus,   212,   216. 
Fort  William,  212,  216-218, 

222. 

Fowey,    321,    328-333. 
Francis    I.,    35,    37. 
Francis  II.,    33,    35,    44. 
Frankfort,   84,    86-88. 
Freiburg,   60-61,    69. 
Friedrichshafen,   63-64. 
Furness  Abbey,   258. 
Fussen,    66-68. 
Fyne,    Loch,    227-228. 


Gairlochy,    222. 
Gatehouse,   242. 
George,   I.,   156. 
George  V.,   343. 
Gerardmer,    57. 
Gibson,   R.   A.,   John,    289. 
Gilphead,  Loch,  227. 
Girvan,   239. 
Glasgow,   229-230. 
Glastonbury,    350. 
Glen  Affrick,   209. 
Glencoe,   221. 
Glengarry,   212. 


INDEX 


Gle.nluce,    241-242. 
Goethe,    87,   103. 
Golspie,    195-198. 
Grantham,    149-151. 
Granton,   182. 
Grand   Hotel   de   France 

de     Londres,     Avranches^ 

20-21. 

Granville,    20. 
Gray,    53. 
Great   Glen,  The,   193,   210- 

223. 

Great  Orme'a  Head,  287. 
Great    Torrington,    347. 
Guisborough,   153. 
Guise,    128. 

Guise,   Duke  of,   38-39. 
Gutenberg,    Johann,    88-89. 

H 

Hardy,     Thos.,   303-305. 

307. 

Hatfield,    147-148. 
Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,   356. 
Heidelberg,    84-85. 
Helston,    334. 
Hemans,  Felicia,   272. 
Henderson,  T.  F.,   205. 
Henley,   W.   E.,    181. 
Henry  II.,  England,    12. 
Henry  III.,  France,   38-39. 
Henry,  VIII.,  England,  162 

260. 

Holsworthy,    347. 
Honfleur,    15. 
Hotel     de     France,  Nevers, 

46-47. 


Hotel  de  France  et  d'Angle- 

terre,     St.    Quentin,   128- 

129. 
Hotel     de     la    Croix    d'Or, 

Sedan,   127. 
etl  Hotel    de    Univers,    St.    Lo, 

17,    19. 
Hotel     de     Ville,     Orleans, 

43-44. 

I 

Inverary,    228. 

Invercauld    Arms,    Braemar, 

186. 

Invergarry,   222. 
Inverlochy,    212,   216-217. 
Inverness,    193,    212-213. 
lona,   225. 
Irvine,    230-231. 
Isle   of   Athelney,    348. 
Ivy   Bridge,    319. 


James  II.,    England,    349. 
James   IV.,    Scotland,    242. 
Jeanne  d'Arc,  10,  12-13,  41- 

44. 

Jedburgh,    147. 
Jeffreys,    Judge,    303,    306- 

307,  350. 
John,  King,   150. 
John    O'Groats,     147,     199- 

202,   298,   336. 
Johnson,    Dr.    Samuel,    264, 

272. 
Jones,  John  Paul,  251. 


384 


INDEX 


K 

Karlsruhe,   84-85. 
Kendal,    259-261. 
Kennedy    Castle,    241. 
Keswick,    246-248. 
Kilchimien,    216. 
Kilchurn,    225. 
Kilmartin,    227. 
Kilninver,   226. 
King's  Arms,  Dorchester, 

300-301. 

Kingsley,  Chas.,  348. 
Kintyre,   236. 
Kirkcaldy,    182. 
Kirkoswald,    237. 
Klopp   Castle,   90. 
Knox,   John,   179,    184. 


Lacy,   Henry    de,    266,    268 

Lairg,   208. 

Lake  District,   246-261. 

Lancaster,    262. 

Land's  End,   263,   298,  336- 


341. 

Lansallos  Church,   327. 
Largo,    182-184. 
Larne,   241. 
LaSalle,    12. 
Launceston,    346-347. 
Leven,   Loch,   219. 
Lindau,  64. 

Linnhe,  Loch,   216,   219. 
Linskill,    Mary,    167-170. 
Lion   d'Or,  Neufchatel,   9. 
Liskeard,    328. 
Lochinch,    241. 
Lochnagar,   188. 


Lochy,   Loch,    216. 
Loire  River,   29,   40. 
Lomond,   Loch,    228-229. 
London,    3,    352,    354. 
Lo.ngwy,    125. 
Looes,    322. 
Lorelei,    The,    92. 
Lostwithiel,    328-329. 
Loyal,    Loch,    207-208. 
Ludwigshaven,    62. 
Luxemburg,     99,     101-103, 

125. 
Lyme  Regis,   308-309. 

M 

Macbrayne    Steamship    Co., 

David,    212,    218. 
MacWhirter,     R.     A.,     John, 

65,    209. 
McCaig's   Folly,    Oban,    224- 

225. 

Manchester  Ship  Canal,  263. 
Marlborough,    352-353. 
Marxburg,    94. 
Mary    Stuart,     33,    35,     44, 


179,   250-251. 
Maxwell-Scott,     Hton.     Mrs., 

176. 

Maxwelton,    242. 
Mayence,   88-89. 
Melfort,    Loch,    225,    227. 
Melfort,    Pass   of,    227. 
Melrose,   147,    173-174. 
Melvich,   204. 
Mezieres,    127. 
Millais,   Sir  John,   215. 
Millom,   257. 
Monmouth,    Duke    of,     306, 

307,   349. 
385 


INDEX 


Montgomery,    James,    230. 
Montmedy,    127. 
Montreuil,    5-6,    134. 
Mont   St.    Michel,    20-24. 
Moran,  Thos.,   279-281,  337 
Moselle    River,    94,    96,    99 

101. 

Mosely,    Alfred,    371. 
Mouse   Tower,   The,    91-92. 
Munich,    77-81. 
Mytton,  Gen.,   267-268,   270 

278. 

N 

Ness,    Loch,    214-216. 
Neufchatel,    8-9. 
Neustadt,    61. 
Nevers,    45-47. 
New   Abbey,    242-245. 
Newburgh,    184. 
Newby    Bridge,    259. 
Newton    Abbot,    309. 
Newton,   Sir  Isaac,    151. 
Newton-Stewart,    242. 

o 

Oban,   210,   214,   223-225. 
Oberammergau,    61,    68-77. 
Oberwesel,    93. 
Oich,    Loch,    216. 
Orleans,    40-45. 
Oswy,  King,    161. 
Oxford,   298. 


Palace       Hotel,       Aberdeen 
188-190. 


Peel    Tower,    Darnick,    177- 

179. 
Penzance,       334-335,       341, 

347. 

Perth,    182,    184-185. 
Peter   the   Hermit,    132. 
Philipson,      Major      Robert, 

260-261. 
Pickering,    153. 
Pius   VII.,    Pope,    46. 
Plas  Mawr,    281-285. 
Plymouth,      318-319,      321, 

329. 

Polperro,   320-327. 
Pommard,    52. 
Pont   Audemer,    15. 
Port   Patrick,    237,    241. 
Preston,    262. 
Probus,    333. 
Prun,    100. 
Puddletown,    300. 

Q 

Quiller-Couch,    Sir    Arthur, 
332. 

R 

Ravenglass,    254-257. 
Rawnsley,   Cano.n,   255. 
Reading,    352,    354. 
Remiremont,    55-57. 
Rennes,   25-26. 
Rheinfels>,    94. 
Rhine  River,   59-60,    85,   89* 

96,    99-100. 

Rhinestein    Castle,    91. 
Rhoscomyl,    Owen,    296. 
Rhuddlan,    276-278. 


INDEX 


Richard   I.,   11-12. 
Richard   II.,   294. 
Richard   III.,    150. 
Robin  Hood,  160. 
Rolandseck,    96-97. 
Roue.n,    8-15,    42. 
Royal  Automobile   Club, 


1, 


3,    58,    68,    96,    147,    192, 

210. 
Royal    Cambrian    Academy 

281. 

Rudruth,    334. 
Ruskin,   John,   131,   133. 
Ryan,   Loch,   240. 


St.   Asaph,    270,    273,    276- 

277. 
St.    Austell,    333. 


St.   Benedict's  Abbey,    216. 
St.   Columba,   215-216. 
St.    Columb    Major,    346. 
St.  Goar,  93-94. 
St.   Hilda's  Abbey,   Whitby, 

161-164. 
St.   Ives,    341. 
St.    Lo,    17-20. 
St.   Malo,   20-24. 
St.  Mary's  Church,  Conway, 

289. 
St.   Mary's  Church,  Whitby 

157,    159,    162,    164-165 

167. 
St.     Michael's     Mount,     22, 

334. 

St.  Michel,   Mont,   20-24. 
St.     Peter's     Church,     Dor- 

chester,   302-303. 


St.    Quentin,    128-129. 
St.  Wulfram's  Church, 

Grantham,    149-150. 
Salisbury,    299-300. 
Salisbury,     Sir     Wm.,     267- 

268. 

Schonburg,   93. 
Schongau,    68. 
Scott,  Sir  Walter,   161,  162, 

173-179,    185,    238,    253, 

261,    296-297. 
Sedan,   127-128. 
Sedgemoor,    348-349. 
Se.nnan,    341. 
Shin,    Loch,    208. 
Ship   Inn,  Fowey,   332-333. 
Skiddaw,   246. 
Sonneck  Castle,   92. 
Southey,    Robt.,    247. 
Staff  a,    225. 
Staines,    298,   299. 
Stanley,  Henry  M.,  273-274. 
Stilton,    148. 
Stockton,    153. 
Stolzenfels  Castle,   94. 
Stranraer,    240-241. 
Strathy,    204. 
Stuttgart,   81,    83-84. 
Sutherland,    191,    193. 
Sutherland     Arms,     Golspie, 

196-197. 
Sweetheart  Abbey,   242-245. 


Tain,    194. 

Tamnay-Chatillon,    47-48, 

51. 
Taunton,    348,    350. 


387 


INDEX 


Thorwaldsen,  Albert  Bertel, 

89. 

Thurso,    203. 
Tongue,    203-207. 
Tongue  Inn,   206-207. 
Totnes,    309-311,    318. 
Tours,    30-32,    35. 
Tow-Law,    154. 
Tremeirchion,    272. 
Treves,    96,   99,    101. 
Trouville-sur-Mer,    15. 
Truro,    334,    345-346. 
Turnberry  Castle,   237-239. 
Tuttlingen,   61-62. 
Tyne  River,   155. 

u 

Ulm,    81-83. 
Ulverston,   259. 
Urquhart    Castle,    215. 


Vaile,   P.   A.,    368. 
Vesoul,    53. 
Victoria,    Queen,    186. 
Vinci,    da,   Leonardo,    36. 


w 

Warrington,    262-263. 
Wells,    350. 
Wesley,   John,   338. 
Whitby,   151,   152-153,   157- 

172. 

Whitchurch,    272. 
Whitehaven,    251. 
White,   Rev.   John,    302. 
Wick,    198-199. 
Wigan,    262. 
Wilton-le-Wear,   147. 
Wi.nderm.ere,    259,    261. 
William  I.,  England,  15,  17. 
William   I.,    Germany,    95. 
William  III.,   England,   310. 
Windsor   Castle,    354. 
Woolsthorpe   Manor,    151. 
Wordsworth,       Wm.,       229, 

249-250,      252-253,      257, 

260,   290. 

Y 

York,    151-152. 


Zeppelin,    Count,    64. 


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Books  by  Thos.  D.  Murphy 
Three  Wonderlands  of  tne  American  West 

(Second  Revised  Edition) 

Splendidly  illustrated  with  sixteen  reproductions 
in  colors  from  original  paintings  by  Thos.  Moran, 
N.  A.  and  thirty-two  duogravures  from  photo- 
graphs, also  three  maps.  180  pages,  tall  8vo. 
decorated  cloth.  Price  (boxed)  $3.00  net. 

Carriage  30  cents  extra. 

In  this  volume  Mr.  Murphy  turns  to  our  own  coun- 
try and  both  text  and  pictures  tell  a  story  that  may 
well  engage  the  attention  of  any  o^ne  interested  in  the 
beauty  and  grandeur  of  natural  scenery.  The  book 
will  come  as  a  revelation  to  many  who  have  had  a 
vague  notion  that  there  may  possibly  be  something 
worth  seeing  in  America — after  one  has  "done"  Europe 
The  author  himself  admits  of  such  skepticism  before 
he  made  the  tour  described  in  the  book.  He  says,  "I 
found  myself  wondering  if  there  could  be  such  an  en- 
chanted land  as  Mr.  Moran  portrays — such  a  land  of 
weird  mountains,  crystal  cataracts  and  emerald  rivers 
all  glowing  with  a  riot  of  coloring  that  seem  more 
like  an  iridescent  dream  than  a  sober  reality." 

A  tour  through  the  three  wonderlands  gives  the 
answer — neither  pen  nor  picture  has  ever  told  half  the 
story.  The  sixteen  illustrations  from  original  paint- 
ings by  Thomas  Moran  come  nearer,  perhaps,  than 
anything  excepting  a  personal  visit  in  presenting  to 
the  eyes  the  true  grandeur  of  the  wonderlands  des- 
cribed; and  these  are  supplemented  by  thirty-two  splen- 
did photographs,  reproduced  in  duogravure  and  printed 
in  a  rich  shade  of  brown.  These  features  make  the 
book  one  of  the  most  notable  ever  coming  from  the 
American  press,  and  it  will  serve  the  purpose  of  a 
guide  to  intending  visitors,  as  well  as  a  beautiful  and 
appropriate  souvenir  for  those  who  have  visited  one 
or  all  of  the  wonderlands  so  graphically  portrayed. 


British  Highways  and  Byways  From  a 
Motor  Car 

(Third  Edition) 

With  sixteen  illustrations  in  color  from  original 
paintings  by  noted  artists,  and  thirty-two  duogravures 
from  English  photographs,  also  descriptive  maps  of 
England  and  Scotland.  320  pages  8vo,  decorated 
cloth,  gilt  top.  Price  (boxed)  $3.00. 

An  interesting  record  of  a  summer  motor  tour  in 
Great  Britain  by  an  American  who  took  his  car  with 
him  and  drove  over  some  thousands  of  miles  of  British 
roads.  The  tour  includes  the  cities,  towns  and  villages, 
the  solitary  ruins,  the  literary  shrines,  every  cathedral 
in  the  Island  and  many  of  the  quaintest  and  most 
fascinating  out-of-the-way  places  not  on  the  usual 
route  of  travel.  A  book  of  value  to  anyone  contem- 
plating a  tour  of  Britain  or  interested  in  the  country 
and  its  people. 

In  Unfamiliar  England  With  a  Motor  Car 

(Second  Edition) 

A  new  book  on  England,  with  incursions  into 
Ireland  and  Scotland.  Splendidly  illustrated  with 
sixteen  reproductions  in  color  from  original  paintings 
by  noted  artists,  including  Moran,  Leader,  Bow- 
man, Elias,  Sherrin  and  others,  and  forty-eight  duo- 
gravures from  English  photographs,  illustrating 
many  of  the  quaint  places  visited  by  the  author. 
Also  indexed  map  of  England  and  Wales  and  map 

showing  routes  in  Ireland  and  Scotland. 

A  chronicle  of  the  extensive  wanderings  by  motor 
car  of  an  American  in  rural  England  and  a  record  of 
his  discoveries  in  the  out-of-the-way  corners  of  the 
Island;  also  of  delightful  incursions  into  Scotland  and 


Ireland.  It  is  a  story  redolent  with  the  summer  beauty 
of  the  loveliest  countryside  in  the  world,  and  is  replete 
with  the  tales  of  lonely  ruins,  quaint  old  churches, 
historic  manor  houses  and  palaces;  it  takes  one  through 
the  leafy  byways,  into  the  retired  country  villages,  and 
to  many  unfrequented  nooks  on  the  seashore.  Particu- 
larly has  the  writer  sought  out  the  historic  shrines  in 
England  of  especial  interest  to  Americans  themselves, 
and  his  book  is  quite  a  revelation  in  this  respect.  The 
book  has  much  of  interest  seldom  noted  in  the  litera- 
ture of  travel  and  will  please  alike  the  actual  traveler 
or  the  reader  who  does  his  traveling  in  an  easy  chair 
by  his  own  fireside. 

Of  Mr.  Murphy's  motor  travel  books  dealing  with 
Great  Britain,  the  Royal  Automobile  Club  Journal 
speaks  the  following  commendatory  words: 

England  Through  American  Eyes 

A  member  of  the  Automobile  Club  of  America,  who 
is  also  an  Individual  Associate  of  the  Royal  Automo- 
bile Club,  Mr.  Thomas  D.  Murphy,  has  for  several  years 
past  spent  two  or  three  months  in  touring  in  his  car 
throughout  the  United  Kingdom,  and  the  result  has 
been  the  publication  in  America  of  two  books,  one 
entitled,  'British  Highways  and  Byways  from  a  Motor 
Car/  and  the  other,  'In  Unfamiliar  England.' 

"In  the  former  Mr.  Murphy  deals,  in  a  most  read- 
able and  attractive  style,  with  many  of  the  better 
known  places  of  interest  in  our  country;  but  in  his 
book  entitled  'In  Unfamiliar  England,'  the  author 
describes  many  out-of-the-way  places  which  are  totally 
unknown  to  the  average  English  motorist,  and  even 
to  people  who  pride  themselves  upon  a  knowledge  of 
their  own  country.  A  short  time  ago  the  Touring 
Department  received  an  inquiry  from  a  member  of  the 
Club  concerning  an  old  building  in  the  Eastern  Coun- 
ties; wished  to  know  the  exact  position  of  the  place, 
also  whether  it  was  open  to  the  public.  A  diligent 
search  was  made  through  all  the  usual  books  of  refer- 
ence, and  no  trace  of  it  could  be  discovered.  As  a 
last  resource  Mr.  Murphy's  book  was  consulted,  and 
not  only  was  the  exact  information  required  obtained, 
but  in  addition  an  excellent  illustration  of  the  build- 
ing was  found.  It  seems  curious  that  the  Touring 
Department  should  have  to  consult  a  book  written  by 
an  American  in  order  to  obtain  information  about  an 
interesting  spot  in  this  country. 


"The  writing  of  a  motoring  guide  book  is  a  very 
difficult  matter,  and  the  majority  are  either  crammed 
with  information  and  very  unreadable,  or  else  they  are 
written  in  a  very  personal  manner  which  becomes 
rather  irritating  to  the  person  who  wishes  to  obtain 
information  from  them.  It  is  an  exceedingly  difficult 
matter  to  combine  road  information,  historical  facts, 
and  interesting  legends,  in  such  a  manner  that  the  dry 
sections  are  not  so  numerous  as  to  make  the  book 
wearisome  and  the  lighter  sections  not  so  drawn  out 
as  to  make  the  reading  matter  trivial.  We  should 
imagine  that  it  is  much  easier  to  write  an  ordinary 
novel  than  a  good  guide-book  of  the  readable  descrip- 
tion. Mr.  Murphy  is  one  of  the  few  people  who  can 
manage  this  difficult  undertaking  successfully." 


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